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V 


OVE     LETTERS     OF     A 
VIOLINIST  AND   OTHER 


POEMS.     BY   ERIC   MACKAY 


J©itb  JHuiBtratHin? 

BY 

JAMES    FAGAN 


jftcto  forfe: 

BRENTANO'S 
Chicago  Washington  Paris 


Copyright,  1SQ4,  by 
BRENTANO'S 


THE   CAXTON    PRESS 


TO   MARIE 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Introductory  Notice xi 

Love  Letters  of  a  Violinist: 

Letter  First — Prelude i 

Letter  Second — Sorrow n 

Letter  Third — Regrets 21 

Letter  Fourth — Yearnings 31 

Letter  Fifth — Confessions 41 

Letter  Sixth — Despair 51 

Letter  Seventh — Hope 61 

Letter  Eighth — A  Vision 7 l 

Letter  Ninth — To-morrow 81 

Letter  Tenth — A  Retrospect 91 

Letter  Eleventh — Faith 101 

Letter  Twelfth —  Victory m 


viii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Miscellaneous  Poems: 

Anteros 123 

The  Waking  of  the  Lark 129 

A  Ballad  of  Kisses 132 

Mary  Arden 133 

Sachal:  A  Waif  of  Battle 141 

The  Lady  of  the  May 146 

An  Ode  to  Englishmen .149 

Zulalie        153 

Beethoven  at  the  Piano 155 

A  Rhapsody  of  Death 159 

A  Prayer  for  Light 163 

Mirage 165 

A  Mother's  Name 170 

A  Song  of  Servitude 171 

Sylvia  in  the  West 175 

Eleanore 187 

The  Statue .189 

Pablo  de  Sarasate 191 

My  Amazon 197 

Pro  Patria 199 

The  Little  Grave 205 

A  Dirge 207 

Daisies  out  at  Sea 209 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

Sonnets: 

I.   Ecstasy        215 

II.  Visions 217 

III.  The  Daisy .     .  218 

IV.  Probation 219 

V.  Dante 221 

VI.  Diffidence 222 

VII.   Fairies 223 

VIII.   Spirit  Love 225 

IX.  After  Two  Days 226 

X.   Byron 227 

XI.   Love's  Ambition 228 

XII.   Love's  Defeat 230 

XIII.  A  Thunderstorm  at  Night 231 

XIV.  In  Tuscany 232 

XV.  A  Hero 234 

XVI.   Remorse 235 

XVII.   The  Mission  of  the  Bard 236 

XVIII.  Death 237 

XIX.   To  One  I  Love 239 

XX.   Ex  Tenebra 240 

XXI.  Victor  Hugo 241 

XXII.  Cynthia .  242 

XXIII.   Philomel 244 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Sonnets — {continued')  : 

XXIV.   The  Sonnet  King 245 

XXV.   Token  Flowers 246 

XXVI.  A  Prayer  for  England .  248 

XXVII.  A  Veteran  Poet .  249 

A  Choral  Ode  to  Liberty 251 

Italian  Poems: 

La  Zingarella 263 

II  Ponte  d'Aviglio        271 

I  Miei  Saluti 273 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE 


AT  the  commencement  of  the  year  1885,  a 
ii  captivating  little  volume  of  poems  was 
mysteriously  issued  from  the  "  Leadenhalle 
Presse  "  of  Messrs.  Field  and  Tuer — a  quaint, 
vellum-bound,  antique-looking  book,  tied  up  on 
all  sides  with  strings  of  golden  silk  ribbon,  and 
illustrated  throughout  with  fanciful  wood-cuts. 
It  was  entitled  "  Love  Letters  by  a  Violinist," 
and  those  who  were  at  first  attracted  by  its 
title  and  suggestive   outward    appearance,  un- 


xii  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

tied  the  ribbons  with  a  certain  amount  of  curi- 
osity. Love-letters  were  surely  of  a  private, 
almost  sacred  character.  What  "Violinist" 
thus  ventured  to  publish  his  heart-records 
openly  ?  and  were  they  worth  reading  ?  were 
the  questions  asked  by  the  public,  and  last, 
not  least,  came  the  natural  inquiry,  "Who 
was  the  '  Violinist '  ? "  To  this  no  satisfac- 
tory answer  could  be  obtained,  for  nobody 
knew.  But  it  was  directly  proved  on  perusal 
of  the  book  that  he  was  a  poet,  not  a  mere 
writer  of  verse.  Speculations  arose  as  to  his 
identity,  and  Joseph  Ellis,  the  poet,  reviewed 
the  work  as  follows  : — 

"  Behold  a  mystery — who  shall  uncase  it  ? 
"  A  small  quarto,  anonymous.  The  publisher 
"professes  entire  ignorance  of  its  origin. 
"Wild  guesses  spring  from  the  mask  of  a 
' '  '  Violinist ' — who  can  he  be  ?  Undc  deriva- 
1 '  tur  ?     A  Tyro  ?     The  work  is  too  skilful  for 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xiii 

'  such,  though  even  a  Byron.  Young  ?  Not 
'  old.  Tennyson  ?  No — he  hath  not  the  grace 
'  of  style,  at  least  for  these  verses.  Browning  ? 
'  No — he  could  not  unbend  so  far.  Edwin 
'  Arnold  might,  possibly,  have  been  equal  to 
'  it,  witness,  inter  alia,  '  Violetta ' ;  but  he  is 
'  unlikely.  Lytton  Bulwer,  a  voice  from  the 
'  tomb  ?  No.  His  son,  Owen  Meredith  ?  A 
'  random  supposition,  yet  possible.  Rossetti 
'  — again  a  voice  from  the  tomb  ?  No — he 
'  wanted  the  strength  of  wing.  James  Thom- 
'  son,  the  younger,  could  have  done  it,  but  he 
'  was  too  stern.  Then,  our  detective  ingenu- 
'  ity  proving  incompetent,  who  ?  We  seek  the 
'  Delphic  fane — the  oracle  replies  Szvinburne. 
'  Let  us  bow  to  the  oracular  voice,  for  in 
'  Swinburne  we  find  all  requisites  for  the  work 
' — fertility  of  thought,  grace  of  language,  in- 
'  genuity,  skill  in  the  ars  pcetica,  wealth  of 
'words,    sensuous    nature,    classic    resources. 


xiv  IN TR OD  UC TOR  Y  NO  TJCE. 

a  *  *  *  *  The  writer  of  the  '  Love-Letters  '  is 
"  manifestly  imbued  with  the  tone  and  tune  of 
"  Italian  poetry,  and  has  the  merit  of  proving 
*  the  English  tongue  capable  of  rivalling  the 
"Italian  '  Canzoni  d'Amore.'  *  *  *  *  He  is  a 
"  master  of  versification,  so  is  Swinburne — he 
' '  is  praiseworthy  for  freshness  of  thought, 
"novelty,  and  aptness  in  imagery,  so  is  Swin- 
"burne.  He  is  remarkable  for  sustained 
"  energy,  so  is  Swinburne;  and  thus  it  may 
"  safely  be  said  that,  if  not  the  writer  of  the 
"'Love-Letters,'  he  deserves  to  be  accredited 
' '  with  that  mysterious  production,  until  the 
"  authorship  is  avowed.  *  *  *  *  Unto  Britan- 
"  nia,  as  erst  to  Italia,  has  been  granted  a 
"  a  Petrarch." 

Meanwhile  other  leading  voices  in  the  Press 
joined  the  swelling  chorus  of  praise.  The 
Morning  Post  took  up  the  theme,  andy  after 
vainly  endeavouring  to  clear  up  the  mystery  of 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xv 

the  authorship,  went  on  to  say :  ' '  The  appear- 
'  ance  of  this  book  must  be  regarded  as  a 
'literary  phenomenon.  We  find  ourselves 
'lifted  at  once  by  the  author's  genius  out  of 
'  the  work-a-day  world  of  the  England  of 
'  to-day,  and  transported  into  an  atmosphere  as 
'  rare  and  ethereal  as  that  in  which  the  poet  of 
'  Vaucluse  lived  and  moved  and  had  his  being. 
*****  In  nearly  every  stanza  there  are  un- 
'  erring  indications  of  a  mind  and  heart 
'  steeped  in  that  subtlest  of  all  forms  of 
'  beauty,  the  mythology  of  old  Greece.  The 
'  reader  perceives  at  once  that  he  has  to  do 
'  with  a  scholar  and  man  of  culture,  as  well 
'  as  with  an  inspired  singer,  whose  muse  need 
'  not  feel  abashed  in  the  presence  of  the  high- 
'  est  poets  of  our  own  day." 

Such  expressions  as,  "A  new  star  of  brilliant 
'  magnitude  has  risen  above  the  literary  hori- 
'  zon  in  the  anonymous  author  of  the  exquisite 


xvi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"  book  of  '  Love-Letters, '  "  and  "  These  poems 
''are  among  the  most  graceful  and  beautiful 
"productions  of  modern  times,"  became  fre- 
quent in  the  best  literary  journals,  and  private 
opinion  concerning  the  book  began  to  make  its 
iufluence  felt.  The  brilliant  writer  and  astute 
critic,  George  Meredith,  wrote  to  a  friend  on 
the  subject  as  follows: — 

"  The  lines  and  metre  of  the  poems  are  easy 
"  and  inter  threading  and  perfectly  melodious. 
"  It  is  an  astonishing  production — the  work  of 
"  a  true  musician  in  our  tongue." 

The  Times'  special  correspondent,  Antonio 
Gallenga,  expressed  himself  at  some  length  on 
the  merits  of  the  "Violinist,"  and  spoke  of 
him  "as  one  who  could  conjure  up  a  host  of 
"noble  thoughts  and  bright  fancies,  who  re- 
"  joices  in  a  great  command  of  language,  with 
"  a  flow  of  verse  and  a  wealth  of  rhymes.  It  is 
"  impossible  to  hear  his  confessions,  to  follow 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xvii 

"  him  in  his  aspirations,  to  hear  the  tale  of  his 
"  visions,  his  trances,  his  dreams,  without 
tl  catching  his  enthusiasm  and  bestowing  on  him 
"our  sympathy.  Each  'Love-Letter'  is  in 
■  l  twenty  stanzas — each  stanza  in  six  lines. 
"  The  poem  is  regular  and  symmetrical  as 
"  Dante's  '  Comedy,'  with  as  stately  and  solemn, 
"aye,  and  as  arduous  a  measure."  While  the 
world  of  art  and  letters  thus  discussed  the 
volume,  reading  it  meanwhile  with  such  eager- 
ness that  the  whole  edition  was  soon  entirely 
exhausted,  a  particularly  brilliant  and  well- 
written  critique  of  it  appeared  in  the  New  York 
Independent — a  very  prominent  American  jour- 
nal, destined  afterwards  to  declare  the  author's 
identity,  and  to  be  the  first  to  do  so.  In  the 
columns  of  this  paper  had  been  frequently  seen 
some  peculiarly  graceful  and  impassioned 
poems,  signed  by  one  Eric  Mackay — notable 
among  these  being  a  lyric  entitled  "  The  Wak- 


xviii  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

ing  of  the  Lark  "  (included  in  our  present  vol- 
ume), which,  to  quote  the  expression  of  a  dis- 
tinguished New  York  critic/  "  sent  a  thrill 
through  the  heart  of  America."  There  are  no 
skylarks  in  the  New  World,  but  there  is  a  deep 
tenderness  felt  by  all  Americans  for  the  little 

"  Priest  in  grey  apparel 
"  Who  doth  prepare  to  sing  m  air  his  sinless  summer  carol," 

and  Eric  Mackay's  exquisite  outburst  of  tender 
enthusiasm  for  the  English  bird  of  the  morning 
evoked  from  all  parts  of  the  States  a  chorus  of 
critical  delight  and  approbation.  The  Rev.  T. 
T.  Munger,  of  Massachusetts,  wrote  concern- 
ing it: — 

"  This  strikes  me  as  the  best  poem  I  have 
"seen  for  a  long  time.  As  I  read  it  stanza 
"after  stanza,  with  not  an  imperfect  verse,  not 
"  a  commonplace,  but  with  a  sustained  increase 
"of  pure  sentiment  and  glowing  fancy,  I  was 
"  inclined    to  place  it  beside   Shelley's.     It  is 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xix 

'  not  so  intellectual  as  Shelley's,  but  I  am  not 
'  sure  that  it  is  not  truer.  Mackay's  is  the  lark 
'  itself,  Shelley's  is  himself  listening  to  the  lark. 
'  Besides  Shelley  makes  the  lark  sing  at  even- 
'  ing — as  I  believe  it  does — but  surely  '  it  to  the 
'  'morning  doth  belong,'  and  Shakespeare  is 
'  truer  in  putting  it  at  '  Heaven's  gate.'  It  is  a 
'  great  refreshment  to  us  tired  workers  in  the 
'  prose  of  life  to  come  across  such  a  poem  as 
'  this,  and  seldom  enough  it  happens  nowadays. 
'  Tell  Mr.  Eric  Mackay  to  sing  us  another 
'  song." 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne,  an  American  poet, 
praised  it  in  an  American  paper  ;  and  the  cul- 
tured Maurice  Thompson  writes  : — "  This  lark- 
"  song  touches  the  best  mark  of  simplicity, 
"sweetness,  and  naturalness  in  its  modelling." 

This  admired  lyric  was  copied  from  the  Inde- 
pendent into  many  other  journals,  together  with 
several  other  poems  by  the  same  hand,  such  as 


xx  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"A  Vision  of  Beethoven,"  the  beautiful  verses 
addressed  to  the  Spanish  violinist,  Pablo  de 
Sarasate,  and  a  spirited  reply  to  Algernon 
Charles  Swinburne,  reproaching  him  for  the 
attack  which  the  author  of  "Tristram  of  Ly- 
onesse "  had  made  on  England's  name  and 
fame.  One  day  a  simple  statement  appeared 
in  the  Independent  respecting  the  much  dis- 
cussed "  Love-Letters  by  a  Violinist,"  that  the 
author  was  simply  a  gentleman  of  good  position, 
the  descendant  of  a  distinguished  and  very 
ancient  family,  Eric  Mackay,  known  among  his 
personal  friends  and  intimates  as  a  man  of  bril- 
liant and  extensive  learning,  whose  frequent 
and  long  residences  abroad  have  made  him 
somewhat  of  a  foreigner,  though  by  birth  an 
Englishman.  A  fine  linguist,  a  deep  thinker, 
a  profound  student  of  the  classics,  Mr.  Mac- 
kay may  be  ranked  among  the  most  cultured 
and   accomplished  men   of   his   day,    and   still 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xxi 

young  as  he  is,  will  undoubtedly  be  numbered 
with  the  choice  few  whose  names  are  destined 
to  live  by  the  side  of  poets  such  as  Keats,  whom, 
as  far  as  careful  work,  delicate  feeling,  and 
fiery  tenderness  go,  Eric  Mackay  may  be  said  to 
resemble,  though  there  is  a  greater  robustness 
and  force  in  his  muse,  indicative  of  a  strong 
mind  in  an  equally  strong  and  healthy  body, 
which  latter  advantage  the  divine  Keats  had 
not,  unfortunately  for  himself  and  the  world. 
The  innate,  hardly  restrained  vigour  of  Mr. 
Mackay's  nature  shows  itself  in  such  passages 
as  occur  in  the  sonnets,  "  Remorse,"  "  A  Thun- 
derstorm at  Night ;  also  in  the  wild  and  terribly 
suggestive  "  Zulalie,"  while  something  of  hot 
wrath  and  scorn  leap  out  in  such  lines  as  those 
included   in   his    ode   to  Swinburne,    whom    he 

addresses : — 

"  O  thou  five  foot  five 
"Of  flesh  and  blood  and  sinew  and  the  rest." 


and 


IN  TR  OD  UC  TOR  Y  NO  TICE. 

"  Thou  art  a  bee,  a  bright,  a  golden  thing 
"  With  too  much  honey,  and  the  taste  thereof 
"  Is  sometimes  rough,  and  something  of  a  sting 
"  Dwells  in  the  music  that  we  hear  thee  sing." 
*  *  *  * 

"  Take  back  thy  taunt,  I  say ;  and  with  the  same 
''  Accept  our  pardon ;  or  if  this  offend, 
"  Why,  then,  no  pardon,  e'en  in  England's  name. 
"  We  have  our  country  still,  and  thou  thy  fame  !  " 

At  the  same  time  no  one  in  all  England  does 
more  justice  and  honor  to  Swinburne's  genius 
than  Eric  Mackay. 

His  own  strength  as  a  poet  suggests  to  the 
reader  the  idea  of  a  spirited  horse  reined  in 
tightly  and  persistently, — a  horse  which  prances 
wildly  at  times  and  frets  and  foams  at  the 
bit,  and  might,  on  the  least  provocation,  run 
wild  in  a  furious  and  headlong  career,  sweep- 
ing all  conventionalities  out  of  its  road  by  a 
sheer,   straight-ahead  gallop.     Mr.   Mackay  is, 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xxiii 

however,  a  careful,  even  precise  rider,  and  he 
keeps  a  firm  hand  on  his  restless  Pegasus — 
so  firm  that,  as  his  taste  always  leads  him  to 
depict  the  most  fanciful  and  fine  emotions, 
his  steady  resoluteness  of  restraint  commands 
not  only  our  admiration  but  our  respect. 
While  passionate  to  an  extreme  in  the  "  Love- 
Letters, "  he  is  never  indelicate;  the  coarse, 
almost  brutal,  allusions  made  by  some  writers 
to  certain  phases  of  so-called  love,  which  are 
best  left  unsuggested,  never  defile  the  pen  of 
our  present  author,  who  may  almost  be  called 
fastidious  in  such  matters.  How  beautiful  and 
all-sufficing  to  the  mind  is  the  line  expressing 
the  utter  satisfaction  of  a  victorious  lover : — 

"  Crozvned  with  a  kiss  and  sceptred  with  a  joy  !  " 

No  details  are  needed  here — all  is  said.  The 
"Violinist,"  though  by  turns  regretful,  sor- 
rowful, and  despairing,  is  supreme  throughout. 
He  speaks  of  the  "  lady  of  his  song  "  as 


xxiv  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

"  The  lady  for  whose  sake  I  shall  be  strong, 
"  But  never  weak  or  diffident  again." 

The  supremacy  of  manhood  is  insisted  on 
always  ;  and  the  lover,  though  he  entreats,  im- 
plores, wonders  and  raves  as  all  lovers  do, 
never  forgets  his  own  dignity.  He  will  take  no 
second-best  affection  on  his  lady's  part — this  he 
plainly  states  in  verse  19  of  Letter  V.  Again, 
in  the  last  letter  of  all,  he  asserts  his  mastery — 
and  this  is  as  it  should  be  ;  absolute  authority, 
as  he  knows,  is  the  way  to  win  and  to  keep  a 
woman's  affections.     Such  lovely  fancies  as 

"  Phoebus  loosens  all  his  golden  hair 
"  Right  down  the  sky — and  daisies  turn  and  stare 
"  At  things  we  see  not  with  our  human  wit," 

and 

"  A  tuneful  noise 
"  Broke  from  the  copse  where  late  a  breeze  was  slain, 
"And  nightingales  in  ecstacy  of  pain 
"  Did  break  their  hearts  with  singing  the  old  joys," 

abound  all  through  the  book.     And  here  it  is 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xxv 

as  well  to  mark  the  decision  of  our  poet,  even 
in  trifles.  The  breeze  he  speaks  of  is  not 
hushed,  or  still — none  of  the  usual  epithets  are 
applied  to  it — it  is  "slain"  as  utterly  and  as 
pitifully  as  though  it  were  a  murdered  child. 
This  originality  of  conception  is  remarkable,  and 
comes  out  in  such  lines  as 

"  I  will  unpack  my  mind  of  all  its  fears  " — 

where  the  word  "unpack"  is  singularly  appro- 
priate, and  again — 

"  O  sweet  To-morrow  !     Youngest  of  the  sons 
"  Of  old  King  Time,  to  -whom  Creation  runs 
"As  men  to  God." 

"  Where  a  daisy  grows, 
"  There  grows  a  joy  !  " 

and  beautiful  and  dainty  to  a  high  degree 
is  the  quaint  "Retrospect,"  where  the  lover 
enthusiastically  draws  the  sun  and  moon  into 
his  ecstasies,  and  makes  them  seem  to  partake 
in  his  admiration  of  his  lady's  loveliness. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 

A  graver  and  more  philosophic  turn  of  mind 
will  be  found  in  "A  Song  of  Servitude,"  and 
"A  Rhapsody  of  Death  ;  "  but,  judged  from  a 
critical  standpoint,  Eric  Mackay  is  a  purely 
passionate  poet,  Strang  amongst  the  most  vol- 
uptuous imaginings,  and  sometimes  seeming  to 
despise  the  joys  of  Heaven  itself  for  the  sake  of 
love.  Thus  he  lays  himself  open  to  an  accusa- 
tion of  blasphemy  from  ultra-religious  persons, 
yet  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  this  respect 
he  in  no  way  exceeds  the  emotions  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  Paolo  and  Francesca  da  Rimini,  or 
any  of  those  lovers  whose  passion  has  earned 
for  their  names  an  undying  celebrity. 

In  closing  the  present  notice  we  can  but 
express  a  hope  that  this  volume  of  Eric 
Mackay's  poems  may  meet  with  the  welcome 
it  deserves  from  true  lovers  of  Art  ;  for  Art 
includes  Poetry;    and  Poetry,  as  properly  de- 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE.  xxvii 

fined  is  one  of  its  grandest   and   most  endur- 
ing forms. 

G.  D. 

.  • .  Some  of  the  miscellaneous  poems  in  this  collection  (in- 
cluding "Beethoven  at  the  Piano")  were  published  by  the 
author  a  few  years  ago,  under  a  pseudonym,  now  discarded. 


I'm  f*==v 

|  v    fu  |L  1J   f-/  JL     . 


LETTER   I. 


PRELUDE. 


r"FEACH  me  to  love  thee  as  a  man,  in  prayer, 
May  love  the  picture  of  a  sainted  nun, 
And  I  will  woo  thee,  when  the  day  is  done, 
With  tears  and  vows,  and  fealty  past  compare, 
And  seek  the  sunlight  in  thy  golden  hair, 
And  kiss  thy  hand  to  claim  thy  benison. 


I  shall  not  need  to  gaze  upon  the  skies, 

Or  mark  the  message  of  the  morning  breeze, 
Or  heed  the  notes  of  birds  among  the  trees, 
If,  taught  by  thee  to  yearn  for  Paradise, 
I  may  confront  thee  with  adoring  eyes 
And  do  thee  homage  on  my  bended  knees. 


LETTER   I. 


in. 

For  I  would  be  thy  pilgrim ;  I  would  bow 

Low  as  the  grave,  and,  lingering  in  the  same, 
Live  like  a  spectre;   or  be  burnt  in  flame 

To  do  thee  good.     A  kingdom  for  a  vow 

I'd  freely  give  to  be  elected  now 

The  chief  of  all  the  servants  of  thy  fame. 


Yea,  like  a  Roman  of  the  days  of  old, 

I  would,  for  thee,  construct  a  votive  shrine, 
And  fan  the  fire,  and  consecrate  the  wine ; 
And  have  a  statue  there,  of  purest  gold, 
And  bow  thereto,  unlov'd  and  unconsoled, 
But  proud  withal  to  know  the  statue  thine. 


For  it  were  sacrilege  to  stand  erect, 

And  face  to  face,  within  thy  chamber  lone, 
To  urge  again  my  right  to  what  hath  flown ; 

A  bygone  trust,  a  passion  coldly  check'd ! 

Were  I  a  king  of  men,  or  laurel-deck'd, 
I  were  not  fit  to  claim  thee  as  mine  own. 


PRELUDE. 


VI. 

What  am  I  then  ?     The  sexton  of  a  joy, 
So  lately  slain, — so  lately  on  its  bier 
Laid  out  in  state, — I  dare  not,  for  the  fear 

Of  this  dead  thing,  regard  it  as  a  toy. 

It  was  a  splendid  Hope  without  alloy, 
And  now,  behold !  I  greet  it  with  a  tear. 


VII. 

It  is  my  pastime,  and  my  penance,  too, 
My  pride,  my  comfort,  and  my  discontent, 
To  count  my  sorrows  ere  the  day  is  spent, 
And  dream,  at  night,  of  love  within  the  blue 
Of  thy  sweet  eyes,  and  tremble  through  and  through, 
And  keep  my  house,  as  one  that  doth  lament. 


Have  I  not  sinn'd  ?  I  have;  and  I  am  curst, 
And  Misery  makes  the  moments,  as  they  fly, 
Harder  than  stone,  and  sorrier  than  a  sigh. 
Oh,  I  did  wrong  thee  when  I  met  thee  first, 
And  in  my  soul  a  fantasy  was  nurs'd 

That  seem'd  an  outcome  of  the  upper  sky. 


LETTER   I. 


IX. 

I  thought  a  poor  musician  might  aspire ; 
I  thought  he  might  obtain  from  thee  a  look, 
As  Dian's  self  will  smile  upon  a  brook, 
And  make  it  glad,  though  deaf  to  its  desire, 
And  tinge  its  ripples  with  a  tender  fire, 
And  make  it  thankful  in  its  lonely  nook. 


I  thought  to  win  thee  ere  the  waning  days 
Had  caught  the  snow,  ere  yet  a  word  of  mine 
Had  pall'd  upon  thee  in  the  summer  shine ; 
And  I  was  fain  to  meet  thee  in  the  ways 
Of  wild  romance,  and  cling  to  thee,  and  gaze, 
Between  two  kisses,  on  thy  face  divine. 


XL 

Aye !  on  thy  face,  and  on  the  rippling  hair 
That  makes  a  mantle  round  thee  in  the  night, 
A  royal  robe,  a  network  of  the  light, 
Which  fairies  brought  for  thee,  to  keep  thee  fair, 
And  hide  the  glories  of  a  beauty  rare 

As  those  of  sylphs,  whereof  the  poets  write. 


PRELUDE. 


XII. 


I  thought,  by  token  of  thy  matchless  form, 
To  curb  thy  will,  and  make  thee  mine  indeed, 
From  head  to  foot.     There  is  no  other  creed 
For  men  and  maids,  in  safety  or  in  storm, 
Than  this  of  love.     Repentance  may  be  warm, 
But  love  is  best,  though  broken  like  a  reed. 


"  She  shall  be  mine  till  death!  "  I  wildly  said, 
"Mine,  and  mine  only."     And  I  vow'd,  apace, 
That  I  would  have  thee  in  my  dwelling-place ; 
Yea,  like  a  despot,  I  would  see  thee  led 
Straight  to  the  altar,  with  a  tear  unshed, 
A  wordless  woe  imprinted  on  thy  face. 


XIV. 

I  wanted  thee.     I  yearned  for  thee  afar. 

"  She  shall  be  mine,"  I  cried,  "  and  mine  alone. 

A  Gorgon  grief  may  change  me  into  stone 
If  I  be  baulk'd."     I  hankered  for  a  star, 
And  soar'd,  in  thought,  to  where  the  angels  are, 

To  snatch  my  prize  beyond  the  torrid  zone. 


8  LETTER   I. 


xv. 

I  heeded  not  the  teaching  of  the  past. 

I  heeded  not  the  wisdom  of  the  years. 

"  She  shall  be  mine,"  I  urged,  "  till  death  appears. 
For  death,  I  know,  will  conquer  me  at  last." 
And  then  I  found  the  sky  was  overcast; 

And  then  I  felt  the  bitterness  of  tears. 


XVI. 

"  Behold!  "  I  thought,  "  Behold,  how  fair  to  see 
Is  this  white  wonder!  "  And  I  wish'd  thee  well 
But,  like  a  demon  out  of  darkest  hell, 
I  marr'd  thy  peace,  and  claim'd  thee  on  the  plea 
Of  pride  and  passion;  and  there  came  to  me 
The  far-off  warning  of  a  wedding-bell. 


xvn. 

A  friend  of  thine  was  walking  to  her  doom, 
A  wife-elect,  who,  ere  the  summer  sun 
Had  plied  its  course,  would  weep  for  what  was  don,- 
A  friend  of  thine  and  mine,  who,  in  the  gloom 
Of  her  own  soul,  had  built  herself  a  tomb, 
To  tremble  there,  when  tears  had  ceas'd  to  run. 


PRELUDE. 


XVIII. 


On  this  I  brooded;  but  ah!  not  for  this 
Did  I  abandon  what  I  sought  the  while : 
The  dear  damnation  of  thy  tender  smile, 
And  all  the  tortures  that  were  like  a  bliss, 
And  all  the  raptures  of  a  holier  kiss 
Than  fair  Miranda's  on  the  magic  isle. 


XIX. 

I  urged  my  suit.     "  My  bond!  "  I  did  exclaim, 
"  My  pink  and  white,  the  hand  I  love  to  press, 
The  golden  hair  that  crowns  her  loveliness; 

And  all  the  beauties  which  I  cannot  name ; 

All,  all  are  mine,  and  I  will  have  the  same, 

Though  she  should  hate  me  for  my  love's  excess." 


xx. 

I  knew  myself.     I  knew  the  withering  fate 
That  would  consume  me,  if,  amid  my  trust, 
I  sued  for  Hope  as  beggars  for  a  crust. 
"  O  God! "  I  cried,  entranced  though  desolate, 
"  Hallow  my  love,  or  turn  it  into  hate." 
And  then  I  bow'd,  in  anguish,  to  the  dust. 


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LETTER   II. 


SORROW. 


WES,  I  was  mad.     I  know  it.      I  was  mad. 
A     For  there  is  madness  in  the  looks  of  love ; 
And  he  who  frights  a  tender,  brooding-  dove 
Is  not  more  base  than  I,  and  not  so  sad; 
For  I  had  kill'd  the  hope  that  made  me  glad, 
And  curs'd.  in  thought,  the  sunlight  from  above. 


He  was  a  fool,  indeed,  who  lately  tried 

To  touch  the  moon,  far-shining  in  the  trees, 

He  clomb  the  branches  with  his  hands  and  knees. 

And  craned  his  neck  to  kiss  what  he  espied. 

But  down  he  fell,  unseemly  in  his  pride, 
And  told  his  follies  to  the  fitful  breeze. 


14  LETTER   II. 


in. 

I  was  convicted  of  as  strange  a  thing, 

And  wild  as  strange ;  for,  in  a  hope  forlorn, 
I  fought  with  Fate.     But  now  the  flag  is  torn 
Which  like  a  herald  in  the  days  of  spring 
I  held  aloft.     The  birds  have  ceased  to  sing 

The  dear  old  songs  they  sang  from  morn  to  morn. 


IV. 

All  holy  things  avoid  me.     Breezes  pass 

And  will  not  fan  my  cheek,  as  once  they  did. 
The  gloaming  hies  away  like  one  forbid; 
And  day  returns,  and  shadows  on  the  grass 
Fall  from  the  trees;  and  night  and  morn  amass 
No  joys  for  me  this  side  the  coffin-lid. 


v. 

Absolve  me,  Sweet  !     Absolve  me,  or  I  die; 

And  give  me  pardon,  if  no  other  boon. 

Aye,  give  me  pardon,  and  the  sun  and  moon, 
And  all  the  stars  that  wander  through  the  sky 
Will  be  thy  sponsors,  and  the  gladden'd  cry 

Of  one  poor  heart  will  thank  thee  for  it  soon. 


SORROW.  15 


And  mine  Amati — my  beloved  one — 

The  tender  sprite  who  soothes,  as  best  he  may, 
My  fever'd  pulse,  and  makes  a  roundelay 
Of  all  my  fears — e'en  he,  when  all  is  done, 
Will  be  thy  friend,  and  yield  his  place  to  none 
To  wish  thee  well,  and  greet  thee  day  by  day. 


VII. 

For  he  is  human,  though,  to  look  at  him, 

To  see  his  shape,  to  hear, — as  from  the  throat 
Of  some  bright  angel, — his  ecstatic  note, 

A  sinful  soul  might  dream  of  cherubim. 

Aye !  and  he  watches  when  my  senses  swim, 

And  I  can  trace  the  thoughts  that  o'er  him  float. 


Often,  indeed,  I  tell  him  more  than  man 

E'er  tells  to  woman  in  the  honied  hours 

Of  tranced  night,  in  cities  or  in  bowers; 

And  more,  perchance,  than  lovers  in  the  span 

Of  absent  letters  may,  with  scheming,  plan 

For  life's  surrender  in  the  fairy  towers. 


1 6  LETTER  II. 


IX. 

And  he  consoles  me.     There  is  none  I  find, 
None  in  the  world,  so  venturesome  and  wild, 
And  yet  withal,  so  tender,  true,  and  mild, 
As  he  can  be.     And  those  who  think  him  blind 
Are  much  to  blame.     His  ways  are  ever  kind ; 
And  he  can  plead  as  softly  as  a  child. 


x. 

And  when  he  talks  to  me  I  feel  the  touch 
Of  some  sweet  hope,  a  feeling  of  content 
Almost  akin  to  what  by  joy  is  meant. 
And  then  I  brood  on  this;  for  Love  is  such, 
It  makes  us  weep  to  want  it  overmuch, 
If  wayward  Fate  withhold  his  full  consent. 


XI. 

Oh,  come  to  me,  thou  friend  of  my  desire, 

My  lov'd  Amati !     At  a  word  of  thine 

I  can  be  brave,  and  dash  away  the  brine 

From  off  my  cheek,  and  neutralise  the  fire 

That  makes  me  mad,  and  use  thee  as  a  lyre 

To  curb  the  anguish  of  this  soul  of  mine. 


SORROW.  1 7 


XII. 

Wood  as  thou  art,  my  treasure,  with  the  strings 
Fair  on  thy  form,  as  fits  thy  parentage, 
I  cannot  deem  that  in  a  gilded  cage 
Thy  spirit  lives.     The  bird  that  in  thee  sings 
Is  not  a  mortal.     No !  Enthralment  flings 
Its  charms  about  thee  like  a  poet's  rage. 


XIII. 

Thou  hast  no  sex;  but,  in  an  elfish  way, 
Thou  dost  entwine  in  one,  as  in  a  troth, 
The  gleesome  thoughts  of  man  and  maiden  both. 
Thy  voice  is  fullest  at  the  flush  of  day, 
But  after  midnight  there  is  much  to  say 
In  weird  remembrance  of  an  April  oath. 


And  when  the  moon  is  seated  on  the  throne 

Of  some  white  cloud,  with  her  attendants  near — 
The  wondering  stars  that  hold  her  name  in  fear — 

Oh!  then  I  know  that  mine  Amati's  tone 

Is  all  for  me,  and  that  he  stands  alone, 
Fi -st  of  his  tribe,  belov'd  without  a  peer. 


1 8  LETTER  II. 


xv. 

Yea,  this  is  so,  my  Lady !  A  fair  form 
Made  of  the  garner'd  relics  of  a  tree, 
In  which  of  old  a  dryad  of  the  lea 
Did  live  and  die.     He  fiourish'd  in  a  storm, 
And  learnt  to  warble  when  the  days  were  warm 
And  learnt  at  night  the  secrets  of  the  sea. 


XVI. 

And  now  he  is  all  mine,  for  my  caress 

And  my  strong  bow, — an  Ariel,  as  it  seems, — 
A  something  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  dreams; 
A  prison'd  wizard  that  has  come  to  bless 
And  will  not  curse,  though  tortured,  more  or  less, 
By  some  remembrance  that  athwart  him  streams. 


XVII. 

It  is  the  thought  of  April.    'Tis  the  tie 

That  made  us  one ;  for  then  the  earth  was  fair 
With  all  things  on't,  and  summer  in  the  air 
Tingled  for  thee  and  me.     A  soft  reply 
Came  to  thy  lips,  and  I  was  like  to  die 

To  hear  thee  make  such  coy  confessions  there. 


SORROW.  19 


XVIII. 

It  was  the  dawn  of  love  (or  so  I  thought) 
The  tender  cooing  of  thy  bosom-bird — 
The  beating  heart  that  flutter'd  at  a  word, 
And  seem'd  for  me  alone  to  be  so  fraught 
With  wants  unutter'd !  All  my  being  caught 
Glamor  thereat,  as  at  a  boon  conferr'd. 


XIX. 

And  I  was  lifted,  in  a  minute's  space, 

As  nigh  to  Heaven  as  Heaven  is  nigh  to  thee, 
And  in  thy  wistful  glances  I  could  see 
Something  that  seem'd  a  joy,  and  in  thy  face 
A  splendour  fit  for  angels  in  the  place 

Where  God  has  named  them  all  in  their  degree. 


xx. 

Ah,  none  so  blest  as  I,  and  none  so  proud, 
In  that  wild  moment  when  a  thrill  was  sent 
Right  through  my  soul,  as  if  from  thee  it  went 

As  flame  from  fire!     But  this  was  disallow'd; 

And  I  shall  sooner  wear  a  winter  shroud 
Than  thou  revoke  my  doom  of  banishment. 


;-'X  km 


p* 


LETTER  III. 


REGRETS. 


"\  I  7 HEN  I  did  wake,  to-day,  a  bird  of  Heaven, 
A  wanton,  woeless  thing,  a  wandering  sprite, 
Did  seem  to  sing  a  song  for  my  delight; 
And,  far  away,  did  make  its  holy  steven 
Sweeter  to  hear  than  lute-strings  that  are  seven; 
And  I  did  weep  thereat  in  my  despite. 


O  glorious  sun !     I  thought,  O  gracious  king, 
Of  all  this  splendour  that  we  call  the  earth ! 
For  thee  the  lark  distils  his  morning  mirth, 

But  who  will  hear  the  matins  that  I  sing  ? 

Who  will  be  glad  to  greet  me  in  the  spring, 
Or  heed  the  voice  of  one  so  little  worth  ? 


24  LETTER  HI. 


in. 

Who  will  accept  the  thanks  I  would  entone 
For  having  met  thee  ?  and  for  having  seen 
Thy  face  an  instant  in  the  bower  serene 
Of  perfect  faith  ?    The  splendour  was  thine  own, 
The  rapture  mine ;  and  Doubt  was  overthrown, 
And  Grief  forgot  the  keynote  of  its  threne. 


IV. 

I  rose  in  haste.     I  seiz'd,  as  in  a  trance, 
My  violin,  the  friend  I  love  the  best 
(After  thyself,  sweet  soul !)  and  wildly  press'd, 
And  firmly  drew  it,  with  a  master's  glance, 
Straight  to  my  heart !    The  sunbeams  seem'd  to  dance 
Athwart  the  strings,  to  rob  me  of  my  rest. 


v. 

For  then  a  living  thing  it  did  appear, 

And  every  chord  had  sympathies  for  me; 
And  something  like  a  lover's  lowly  plea 
Did  shake  its  frame,  and  something  like  a  tear 
Fell  on  my  cheek,  to  mind  me  of  the  year 
When  first  we  met,  we  two,  beside  the  sea. 


-Hi  ■: 


REGRETS.  25 


VI. 

I  stood  erect,  I  proudly  lifted  up 

The  Sword  of  Song,  the  bow  that  trembled  now, 
As  if  for  joy,  my  grief  to  disallow. — 
Are  there  not  some  who,  in  the  choicest  cup, 
Imbibe  despair,  and  famish  as  they  sup, 
Sear'd  by  a  solace  that  was  like  a  vow  ? 


VII. 

Are  there  not  some  who  weep,  and  cannot  tell 
Why  it  is  thus  ?     And  others  who  repeat 
Stories  of  ice,  to  cool  them  in  the  heat  ? 
And  some  who  quake  for  doubts  they  cannot  quell, 
And  yet  are  brave  ?     And  some  who  smile  in  Hell 
For  thinking  of  the  sin  that  was  so  sweet  ? 


VIII. 

I  have  been  one  who,  in  the  glow  of  youth, 
Have  liv'd  in  books,  and  realised  a  bliss 
Unfelt  by  misers,  when  they  count  and  kiss 
Their  minted  joys;  and  I  have  known,  in  sooth, 
The  taste  of  water  from  the  well  of  Truth, 
And  found  it  good.     But  time  has  alter'd  this. 


26  LETTER   III. 


IX. 


I  have  been  hated,  scorn'd,  and  thrust  away, 
By  one  who  is  the  Regent  of  the  flowers, 
By  one  who,  in  the  magic  of  her  powers, 

Changes  the  day  to  night,  the  night  to  day, 

And  makes  a  potion  of  the  solar  ray 

Which  drugs  my  heart,  and  deadens  it  for  hours. 


I  have  been  taught  that  Happiness  is  coy, 
And  will  not  come  to  all  who  bend  the  knee ; 
That  Faith  is  like  the  foam  upon  the  sea, 
And  Pride  a  snare,  and  Pomp  a  foolish  toy, 
And  Hope  a  moth  whose  wings  we  may  destroy; 
And  she  I  love  has  taught  these  things  to  me. 


XI. 

Yes,  thou,  my  Lady !     Thou  hast  made  me  feel 
The  pangs  of  that  Prometheus  who  was  chain'd 
And  would  not  bow,  but  evermore  maintain'd 

A  fierce  revolt.     Have  I  refused  to  kneel  ? 

I  do  it  gladly.     But  to  mine  appeal 

No  answer  comes,  and  none  will  be  ordain'd. 


REGRETS.  27 


XII. 

Why,  then,  this  rancour  ?     Why  so  cold  a  thing 
As  thy  displeasure,  O  thou  dearest  One  ? 
I  meant  no  wrong.     I  stole  not  from  the  sun 
The  fire  of  Heaven;  but  I  did  seek  to  bring 
Glory  from  thee  to  me ;  and  in  the  Spring 
I  pray'd  the  prayer  that  left  me  thus  undone. 


XIII. 

I  pray'd  my  prayer.     I  wove  into  my  song 

Fervour,  and  joy,  and  mystery,  and  the  bleak, 
The  wan  despair  that  words  can  never  speak. 

I  pray'd  as  if  my  spirit  did  belong 

To  some  old  master,  who  was  wise  and  strong 
Because  he  lov'd,  and  suffer'd,  and  was  weak. 


I  curb'd  the  notes,  convulsive,  to  a  sigh, 

And,  when  they  falter'd  most,  I  made  them  leap 
Fierce  from  my  bow,  as  from  a  summer  sleep 

A  young  she-devil.     I  was  fired  thereby 

To  bolder  efforts,  and  a  muffled  cry 

Came  from  the  strings,  as  if  a  saint  did  weep. 


28  LETTER  III. 


xv. 

I  changed  the  theme.     I  dallied  with  the  bow 
Just  time  enough  to  fit  it  to  a  mesh 
Of  merry  notes,  and  drew  it  back  afresh 
To  talk  of  truth  and  constancy  and  woe, 
And  life,  and  love,  and  madness,  and  the  glow 
Of  mine  own  soul  which  burns  into  my  flesh. 


XVI. 

It  was  the  Lord  of  music,  it  was  he 

Who  seiz'd  my  hand.     He  forc'd  me,  as  I  play'd, 
To  think  of  that  ill-fated  fairy-glade 
Where  once  we  stroll'd  at  night ;  and  wild  and  free 
My  notes  did  ring;  and  quickly  unto  me 
There  came  the  joy  that  maketh  us  afraid. 


XVII. 

Oh !  I  shall  die  of  tasting  in  my  dreams 

Poison  of  love  and  ecstasy  of  pain ; 

For  I  shall  never  kneel  to  thee  again, 
Or  sit  in  bowers,  or  wander  by  the  streams 
Of  golden  vales,  or  of  the  morning  beams 

Construct  a  wreath  to  crown  thee  on  the  plain ! 


REGRETS.  29 


XVIII. 

Yet  it  were  easy,  too,  to  compass  this, 
So  thou  wert  kind;  and  easy  to  my  soul 
Were  harder  things  if  I  could  reach  the  goal 
Of  all  I  crave,  and  consummate  a  bliss 
In  mine  own  fashion,  and  compel  a  kiss 

More  fraught  with  honour  than  a  king's  control. 


XIX. 

It  is  not  much  to  say  that  I  would  die, — 
It  is  not  much  to  say  that  I  would  dare 
Torture,  and  doom,  and  death,  could  I  but  share 
One  kiss  with  thee.     For  then,  without  a  sigh, 
I'd  teach  thee  pity,  and  be  graced  thereby, 
Wet  with  thy  tears,  and  shrouded  by  thy  hair. 


It  is  not  much  to  say  that  this  is  so ; 

Yet  I  would  sell  my  substance  and  my  breath. 
And  all  the  joy  that  comes  from  Nazareth, 
And  all  the  peace  that  all  the  angels  know, 
To  lie  with  thee,  one  minute,  in  the  snow 
Of  thy  white  bosom,  ere  I  sank  in  death! 


~)><C~ 


-=<4Xthl 


4?  ** 


LETTER  IV. 


YEARNINGS. 


THE  earth  is  glad,  I  know,  when  night  is  spent, 
*     For  then  she  wakes  the  birdlings  in  the  bowers; 

And,  one  by  one,  the  rosy-footed  hours 
Start  for  the  race;  and  from  his  crimson  tent 
The  soldier-sun  looks  o'er  the  firmament; 

And  all  his  path  is  strewn  with  festal  flowers. 


But  what  his  mission  ?     What  the  happy  quest 
Of  all  this  toil  ?     He  journeys  on  his  way 
As  Caesar  did,  unbiass'd  by  the  sway 

Of  maid  or  man.     His  goal  is  in  the  west. 

Will  he  unbuckle  there,  and,  in  his  rest, 

Dream  of  the  gods  who  died  in  Nero's  day  ? 


LETTER   IV. 


in. 


Will  he  arraign  the  traitor  in  his  camp  ? 

The  Winter  Comet  who,  with  streaming  hair, 
Attack'd  the  sweetest  of  the  Pleiads  fair 
And  ravish'd  her,  and  left  her  in  the  damp 
Of  dull  decay,  nor  re-illumined  the  lamp 
That  show'd  the  place  she  occupied  in  air. 


IV. 

No;  'tis  not  so!     He  seeks  his  lady-moon, 
The  gentle  orb  for  whom  Endymion  sigh'd, 
And  trusts  to  find  her  by  the  ocean  tide, 

Or  near  a  forest  in  the  coming  June; 

For  he  has  lov'd  her  since  she  late  did  swoon 
In  that  eclipse  of  which  she  nearly  died. 


He  knew  her  then;  he  knew  her  in  the  glow 

Of  all  her  charms.     He  knew  that  she  was  chaste, 
And  that  she  wore  a  girdle  at  her  waist 

Whiter  than  pearl.     And  when  he  eyed  her  so 

He  knew  that  in  the  final  overthrow 

He  should  prevail,  and  she  should  be  embraced. 


YEARNINGS.  35 


VI. 

But  were  I  minded  thus,  were  I  the  sun, 

And  thou  the  moon,  I  would  not  bide  so  long 
To  hear  the  marvels  of  thy  wedding-song; 
For  I  would  have  the  planets,  every  one, 
Conduct  thee  home,  before  the  day  was  done, 

And  call  thee  queen,  and  crown  thee  in  the  throng. 


VII. 

And,  like  Apollo,  I  would  flash  on  thee, 

And  rend  thy  veil,  and  call  thee  by  the  name 
That  Daphne  lov'd,  the  loadstar  of  his  fame; 
And  make  myself  for  thee  as  white  to  see 
As  whitest  marble,  and  as  wildly  free 
As  Leda's  lover  with  his  look  of  flame. 


VIII. 

And  there  should  then  be  fetes  that  should  not  cease 
Till  I  had  kiss'd  thee,  lov'd  one !  in  a  trance 
Lasting  a  life-time,  through  a  life's  romance; 
And  every  star  should  have  a  mate  apiece, 
And  I  would  teach  them  how,  in  ancient  Greece, 
The  gods  were  masters  of  the  maidens'  dance. 


36  LETTER  11/. 


IX. 

I  should  be  bold  to  act;  and  thou  should'st  feel 
Terror  and  joy  combined,  in  all  the  span 
Of  thy  sweet  body,  ere  my  fingers  ran 

From  curl  to  curl,  to  prompt  thee  how  to  kneel; 

And  then,  soul-stricken  by  thy  mute  appeal, 
I  should  be  quick  to  answer  like  a  man. 


What!  have  I  sinn'd,  dear  Lady,  have  I  sinn'd 
To  talk  so  wildly  ?     Have  I  sinn'd  in  this  ? 
An  angel's  mouth  was  surely  meant  to  kiss! 
Or  have  I  dreamt  of  courtship  out  in  Inde 
In  some  wild  wood  ?     My  soul  is  fever-thinn'd, 
And  fierce  and  faint,  and  frauded  of  its  bliss. 


XI. 

I  will  not  weep.     I  will  not  in  the  night 
Weep  or  lament,  or,  bending  on  my  knees, 
Appeal  for  pity!     In  the  clustered  trees 

The  wind  is  boasting  of  its  one  delight ; 

And  I  will  boast  of  mine,  in  thy  despite, 
And  say  I  love  thee  more  than  all  of  these. 


YEARNINGS.  37 


XII. 

The  rose  in  bloom,  the  linnet  as  it  sings, 
The  fox,  the  fawn,  the  cygnet  on  the  mere, 
The  dragon-fly  that  glitters  like  a  spear, — 
All  these,  and  more,  all  these  ecstatic  things, 
Possess  their  mates;  and  some  arrive  on  wings, 
And  some  on  webs,  to  make  their  meanings  clear. 


XIII. 

Yea,  all  these  things,  and  more  than  I  can  tell, 
More  than  the  most  we  know  of,  one  and  all, 
Do  talk  of  Love.     There  is  no  other  call 
From  wind  to  wave,  from  rose  to  asphodel, 
Than  Love's  alone — the  thing  we  cannot  quell, 
Do  what  we  will,  from  font  to  funeral. 


XIV. 

What  have  I  done,  I  only  on  the  earth, 
That  I  should  wait  a  century  for  a  word  ? 
A  hundred  years,  I  know,  have  been  deferr'd 
Since  last  we  met,  and  then  it  was  in  dearth 
Of  gladsome  peace;  for,  in  a  moment's  girth, 
My  shuddering  soul  was  wounded  like  a  bird. 


LET  TEH  IV. 


xv. 

I  knew  thy  voice.      I  knew  the  veering  sound 
Of  that  sweet  oracle  which  once  did  tend 
To  treat  me  grandly,  as  we  treat  a  friend ; 
And  I  would  know't  if  darkly  underground 
I  lay  as  dead,  or,  down  among  the  drown'd, 
I  blindly  stared,  unvalued  to  the  end. 


XVI. 

There !  take  again  the  kiss  I  took  from  thee 
Last  night  in  sleep.     I  met  thee  in  a  dream 
And  drew  thee  closer  than  a  monk  may  deem 
Good  for  the  soul.     I  know  not  how  it  be, 
But  this  I  know :  if  God  be  good  to  me 
I  shall  be  raised  again  to  thine  esteem. 


XVII. 

I  touched  thy  neck.     I  kiss'd  it.     I  was  bold. 
And  bold  am  I,  to-day,  to  call  to  mind 
How,  in  the  night,  a  murmur  not  unkind 
Broke  on  mine  ear;  a  something  new  and  old 
Quick  in  thy  breath,  as  when  a  tale  is  told 

Of  some  great  hope  with  madness  intertwined. 


YEARNINGS.  39 


XVIII. 

And  round  my  lips,  in  joy  and  yet  in  fear, 

There  seemed  to  dart  the  stings  of  kisses  warm. 
These  were  my  honey-bees,  and  soon  would  swarm 

To  choose  their  queen.     But  ere  they  did  appear, 

I  heard  again  that  murmur  in  mine  ear 

Which  seem'd  to  speak  of  calm  before  a  storm. 


XIX. 

"What  is  it,  love  ?  "     I  whispered  in  my  sleep, 
And  turned  to  thee,  as  April  unto  May. 
"Art  mine  in  truth,  mine  own,  by  night  and  day, 
Now  and  for  ever? "     And  I  heard  thee  weep, 
And  then  persuade ;  and  then  my  soul  did  leap 
Swiftly  to  thine,  in  love's  ecstatic  sway. 


I  fondled  thee !  I  drew  thee  to  my  heart, 
Well  knowing  in  the  dark  that  joy  is  dumb. 
And  then  a  cry,  a  sigh,  a  sob,  did  come 
Forth  from  thy  lips.   ...   I  waken'd,  with  a  start, 
To  find  thee  gone.     The  day  had  taken  part 
Against  the  total  of  my  blisses'  sum. 


CONFESSIONS  .1 


f-!".:c 


LETTER   V. 


CONFESSIONS. 


f~\   LADY  mine  !     O  Lady  of  my  Life  ! 
^^    Mine  and  not  mine,  a  being  of  the  sky 

Turn'd  into  Woman,  and  I  know  not  why 
Is't  well,  bethink  thee,  to  maintain  a  strife 
With  thy  poor  servant  ?     War  unto  the  knife, 
Because  I  greet  thee  with  a  lover's  eye  ? 


ii. 

Is't  well  to  visit  me  with  thy  disdain, 

And  rack  my  soul,  because,  for  love  of  thee, 
I  was  too  prone  to  sink  upon  my  knee, 
And  too  intent  to  make  my  meaning  plain, 
And  too  resolved  to  make  my  loss  a  gain 
To  do  thee  good,  by  Love's  immortal  plea  ? 

43 


44  LETTER    V. 


in. 

O  friend !   forgive  me  for  my  dream  of  bliss. 

Forgive:  forget;  be  just!     Wilt  not  forgive  ? 

Not  though  my  tears  should  fall,  as  through  a  sieve 
The  salt  sea-sand  ?     What  joy  hast  thou  in  this: 
To  be  a  maid,  and  marvel  at  a  kiss  ? 

Say  !     Must  I  die,  to  prove  that  I  can  live  ? 


Shall  this  be  so  ?     E'en  this  ?     And  all  my  love 

Wreck'd  in  an  instant  ?    No,  a  gentle  heart 

Beats  in  thy  bosom;  and  the  shades  depart 

From  all  fair  gardens,  and  from  skies  above, 

When  thou  art  near.     For  thou  art  like  a  dove, 

And  dainty  thoughts  are  with  thee  where  thou  art. 


v. 

Oh !  it  is  like  the  death  of  dearest  kin, 
To  wake  and  find  the  fancies  of  the  brain 
Sear'd  and  confused.     We  languish  in  the  strain 

Of  some  lost  music,  and  we  find  within. 

Deep  in  the  heart,  the  record  of  a  sin, 

The  thrill  thereof,  and  all  the  blissful  pain. 


CONFESSIONS.  45 


VI. 

For  it  is  deadly  sin  to  love  too  well, 

And  unappeased,  unhonour'd,  unbesought, 
To  feed  on  dreams;  and  yet  'tis  aptly  thought 
That  all  must  love.     E'en  those  who  most  rebel 
In  Eros'  camp  have  known  his  master-spell ; 
And  more  shall  learn  than  Eros  vet  has  taueht. 


VII. 

But  I  am  mad  to  love.      I  am  not  wise. 
I  am  the  worst  of  men  to  love  the  best 
Of  all  sweet  women  !     An  untimely  jest, 
A  thing  made  up  of  rhapsodies  and  sighs, 
And  unordained  on  earth,  and  in  the  skies, 
And  undesired  in  tumult  and  in  rest. 


VIII. 

All  this  is  true.     I  know  it.    I  am  he. 
I  am  that  man.     I  am  the  hated  friend 
Who  once  received  a  smile,  and  sought  to  mend 
His  soul  with  hope.     O  tyrant !  by  the  plea 
Of  all  thy  grace,  do  thou  accept  from  me 
At  least  the  notes  that  know  not  to  offend. 


46  LETTER   K 


IX. 

See  !  I  will  strike  again  the  major  chord 

Of  that  great  song,  which,  in  his  early  days, 
Beethoven  wrote;  and  thine  shall  be  the  praise, 
And  thine  the  frenzy  like  a  soldier's  sword 
Flashing  therein;  and  thine,  O  thou  adored 
And  bright  true  Lady  !  all  the  poet's  lays. 


To  thee,  to  thee,  the  songs  of  all  my  joy, 
To  thee  the  songs  that  wildly  seem  to  bless, 
And  those  that  mind  thee  of  a  past  caress. 
Lo !  with  a  whisper  to  the  Winged  Boy 
Who  rules  my  fate,  I  will  my  strength  employ 
To  make  a  matin-son sr  of  mv  distress. 


XI. 

But  playing  thus,  and  toying  with  the  notes, 
I  half  forget  the  cause  I  have  to  weep; 
And,  like  a  reaper  in  the  realms  of  sleep, 
I  hear  the  bird  of  morning  where  he  floats 
High  in  the  welkin,  and  in  fairy  boats 
I  see  the  minstrels  sail  upon  the  deep. 


CONFESSIONS.  47 


XII. 

In  mid-suspension  of  my  leaping  bow 
I  almost  hear  the  silence  of  the  night ; 
And,  in  my  soul,  I  know  the  stars  are  bright 
Because  they  love,  and  that  they  nightly  glow 
To  make  it  clear  that  there  is  nought  below, 
And  nought  above,  so  fair  as  Love's  delight. 


XIII. 

But  shall  I  touch  thy  heart  by  speech  alone, 
Without  Amati  ?    Shall  I  prove,  by  words, 
That  hope  is  meant  for  men  as  well  as  birds; 
That  I  would  take  a  scorpion,  or  a  stone, 
In  lieu  of  gold,  and  sacrifice  a  throne 

To  be  the  keeper  of  thy  flocks  and  herds  ? 


xiv. 

Ah  no,  my  Lady  !  though  I  sang  to  thee 

With  fuller  voice  than  sings  the  nightingale — 
Fuller  and  softer  in  the  moonlight  pale 
Than  lays  of  Keats,  or  Shelley,  or  the  free 
And  fire-lipp'd  Byron — there  would  come  to  me 
No  word  of  thine  to  thank  me  for  the  tale. 


48  LETTER   V. 


XV. 

Thou  would'st  not  heed.     Thou  would'st  not  any-when, 
In  bower  or  grove — or  in  the  holy  nook 
Which  shields  thy  bed — thou  would'st  not  care  to  look 
For  thoughts  of  mine,  though  faithful  in  their  ken 
As  are  the  minds  of  England's  fighting  men 

When  they  inscribe  their  names  in  Honour's  book. 


XVI. 

Thou  would'st  not  care  to  scan  my  face,  and  through 
This  face  of  mine,  the   soul,  for  scraps  of  thought. 
Yet  'tis  a  face  that  somewhere  has  been  taught 
To  smile  in  tears.      Mine  eyes  are  somewhat  blue 
And  quick  to  flash  (if  what  I  hear  be  true) 

And  dark,  at  times,  as  velvet  newly  wrought. 


XVII. 

But  wilt  thou  own  it  ?     Wilt  thou  in  the  scroll 
Of  my  sad  life,  perceive,  as  in  a  hive, 
A  thousand  happy  fancies  that  contrive 
To  seek  thee  out  ?     Thy  bosom  is  the  goal 
Of  all  my  thoughts,  and  quick  to  thy  control 
They  wend  their  way,  elate  to  be  alive. 


CONFESSIONS.  49 


XVIII. 

But  there  is  something  I  could  never  bring 
My  soul  to  compass.     No  !  could  I  compel 
Thy  plighted  troth,  I  would  not  have  thee  tell 
A  lie  to  God.      I'll  have  no  wedding-ring 
With  loveless  hands  around  my  neck  to  cling; 
For  this  were  worse  than  all  the  fires  of  hell. 


xix. 

I  would  not  take  thee  from  a  lover's  lips, 
Or  from  the  rostrum  of  a  roaring  crowd, 
Or  from  the  memory  of  a  husband's  shroud, 

Or  from  the  goblet  where  a  Caesar  sips. 

I  would  not  touch  thee  with  my  finger  tips, 
But  I  would  die  to  serve  thee. — and  be  proud. 


And  could  I  enter  Heaven,  and  find  therein, 
In  all  the  wide  dominions  of  the  air, 
No  trace  of  thee  among  the  natives  there, 
I  would  not  bide  with  them — No  !  not  to  win 
A  seraph's  lyre — but  I  would  sin  a  sin, 

And  free  my  soul,  and  seek  thee  otherwhere  ! 


---*&.:■ 


LETTER  VI. 


DESPAIR. 


I  AM  undone.      My  hopes  have  beggar'd  me, 
For  I  have  lov'd  where  loving  was  denied. 
To-day  is  dark,  and  Yesterday  has  died, 
And  when  To-morrow  comes,  erect  and  free, 
Like  some  great  king,  whose  tyrant  will  he  be, 
And  whose  defender  in  the  days  of  pride  ? 


ii. 

I  am  not  cold,  and  yet  November  bands 

Compress  my  heart.     I  know  the  month  is  May, 
And  that  the  sun  will  warm  me  if  I  stay. 
But  who  is  this  ?     Oh,  who  is  this  that  stands 
Straight  in  my  path,  and  with  his  bony  hands 
Appeals  to  me  to  turn  some  other  way  ? 

53 


54  LETTER   VI. 


in. 

It  is  the  phantom  of  my  murder'd  joy, 
Which  once  again  has  come  to  persecute, 
And  tell  me  tales  which  late  I  did  refute. 
But  lo  !  I  now  must  heed  them,  as  a  boy 
Takes  up,  in  tears,  the  remnants  of  a  toy, 
Or  bard  forlorn  the  fragments  of  a  lute. 


IV. 

It  is  the  ghost  that,  day  by  day,  did  come 
To  tempt  my  spirit  to  the  mountain-peak ; 
It  is  the  thing  that  wept,  and  would  not  speak, 
And,  with  a  sign,  to  show  that  it  was  dumb, 
Did  seem  to  hint  at  Death  that  was  the  sum 
Of  all  we  know,  and  all  we  strive  to  seek. 


v. 

And  now  it  comes  again,  and  with  its  eye 

Bloodshot  and  blear,  though  pallid  in  its  face, 
Doth  point,  exacting,  to  the  very  place 

Where  I  do  keep,  that  no  one  may  descry, 

A  lady's  glove,  a  ribbon,  and  a  dry, 

A  perjur'd  rose,  which  oft  I  did  embrace. 


DESPAIR.  55 


VI. 

It  means,  perchance,  that  I  must  make  an  end 
Of  all  these  things,  and  burn  them  as  a  fee 
To  my  Despair,  when  down  upon  my  knee. 

O  piteous  thing  !  have  pity ;  be  my  friend ; 

Or  say,  at  least,  that  blessings  will  descend 
On  her  I  love,  on  her  if  not  on  me ! 


The  Shape  did  smile;  and,  wildly,  with  a  start, 
Did  shrivel  up,  as  when  a  fire  is  spent, 
Whereof  the  smoke  obscured  the  firmament. 
And  then  I  knew  it  had  but  tried  my  heart, 
To  teach  me  how  to  play  a  manly  part, 
And  strengthen  me  in  all  my  good  intent. 


And  here  I  stand  alone,  e'en  like  a  leaf 
In  sudden  frost,  as  quiet  as  the  wing 
Of  wounded  bird,  which  knows  it  cannot  sing. 

A  child  may  moan,  but  not  a  mountain  chief. 

If  we  be  sad,  if  we  possess  a  grief, 

The  grief  should  be  the  slave,  and  not  the  king. 


56  LETTER    VI. 


IX. 

Yes,  I  will  pause,  and  pluck  from  out  the  Past 
The  full  discernment  of  my  sorry  cheer, 
And  why  the  sunlight  seems  no  longer  clear, 
And  why,  in  spite  of  anguish,  and  the  vast, 
The  sickly  blank  that  o'er  my  life  is  cast, 
I  cannot  kneel  to-day,  or  shed  a  tear. 


It  was  thy  friendship.      It  was  this  I  had, 
This  and  no  more.     I  was  a  fool  to  doubt, 
I  was  a  fool  to  strive  to  put  to  rout 
My  many  foes: — thy  musings  tender-glad, 
Which  all  had  said: — "Avoid  him!  he  is  mad — 
Mad  with  his  love,  and  Love's  erratic  shout." 


XI. 

I  should  have  known, — I  should  have  guess'd  in  time,- 
That,  like  a  soft  mirage  at  twilight  hour, 
My  dream  would  melt,  and  rob  me  of  its  dower. 
I  should  have  guess'd  that  all  the  heights  sublime, 
Which  look'd  like  spires  and  cities  built  in  rhyme, 
Would  droop  and  die,  like  petals  from  a  flower. 


DESPAIR.  57 


XII. 

I  should  have  known,  indeed,  that  to  the  brave 
All  things  are  servants.     But  my  lost  Delight 
Was  like  the  ship  that  founders  in  a  night, 
And  leaves  no  mark.     How  then  ?     Is  Passion's  grave 
All  that  is  left  beside  the  sobbing  wave  ? 

The  foam  thereof,  the  saltness,  and  the  blight  ? 


XIII. 

I  had  a  fleet  of  ships,  and  where  are  they  ? 

Where  are  they  all  ?  and  where  the  merchandise 
I  treasured  once — an  empire's  golden  prize, 
The  empire  of  a  soul,  which,  in  a  day, 
Lost  all  its  wealth  ?     I  was  deceiv'd,  I  say, 
For  I  had  reckon'd  on  propitious  skies. 


I  look'd  afar,  and  saw  no  sign  of  wrack. 
I  look'd  anear,  and  felt  the  summer  breeze 
Warm  on  my  cheek;  and  forth  upon  the  seas 
I  sent  my  ships;  and  would  not  have  them  back, 
Though  some  averr'd  a  storm  was  on  the  track 
Of  all  I  lov'd,  and  all  I  own'd  of  these. 


58  LETTER    VI. 


xv. 

One  ship  was  ''Joy,"  the  second  "  Truth,"  the  third 
"  Love  in  a  Dream,"  and,  last  not  least  of  all, 
"  Hope,"  and  "  Content,"  and  "  Pride  that  hath  a  Fall." 

And  they  were  goodly  vessels,  by  my  word, 

With  sails  as  strong  as  pinions  of  a  bird, 
And  crew  that  answer'd  well  to  Duty's  call. 


XVI. 

In  one  of  these — in  "  Hope  " — where  I  did  fly 

A  lofty  banner, — in  that  ship  I  found 

Doom's-day  at  last,  and  all  my  crew  were  drown'd. 
Yes,  I  was  wreck'd  in  this,  and  here  I  lie, 
Here  on  the  beach,  forlorn  and  like  to  die, 

With  none  to  pray  for  me  on  holy  ground. 


XVII. 

O  sweet  my  Lady  !     If  thou  pass  this  way, 
And  thou  behold  me  where  I  lie  beset 
By  wind  and  wave,  and  powerless  to  forget, 
Wilt  not  approach  me  thoughtfully  and  say : — 
"  This  man  was  true.     He  lov'd  me  night  and  day 
And  though  I  spurn'd  at  him,  he  loves  me  yet." 


DESPAIR.  59 


XVIII. 

Wilt  not  withhold  thy  blame,  at  least  to-night, 
And  shed  for  me  a  tear,  as  one  may  grieve 
For  people  known  in  books,  for  men  who  weave 

Ropes  out  of  sand,  to  lead  them  to  the  light  ? 

Oh  !  treat  me  thus,  and,  by  thy  hand  so  white, 
I  will  forego  the  dreams  to  which  I  cleave. 


XIX. 

Be  just  to  me,  and  say,  when  all  is  o'er, 
When  some  such  book  is  calmly  laid  aside : 
"The  shadow-men  have  liv'd  and  lov'd  and  died; 

The  shadow- women  will  be  vexed  no  more. 

But  there  is  One  for  whom  my  heart  is  sore, 
Because  he  took  a  shadow  for  his  guide." 


Say  only  this;  but  pray  for  me  withal, 

And  let  a  pitying  thought  possess  thee  then, 
Whether  at  home,  at  sea,  or  in  a  glen 
In  some  wild  nook.     It  were  a  joy  to  fall 
Dead  at  thy  feet,  as  at  a  trumpet's  call, 
For  I  should  then  be  peerless  among  men! 


f-^-Wi 


LETTER  VII 


HOPE. 


f\  TEARS  of  mine !     Ye  start  I  know  not  why, 
^->^      Unless,  indeed,  to  prove  that  I  am  glad, 

Albeit  fast  wedded  to  a  thought  so  sad 
I  scarce  can  deem  that  my  despair  will  die, 
Or  that  the  sun,  careering  up  the  sky, 

Will  warm  again  a  world  that  seem'd  so  mad. 


ii. 

And  yet,  who  knows  ?     The  world  is,  to  the  mind, 

Much  as  we  make  it;  and  the  things  we  tend 

Wear,  for  the  nonce,  the  liveries  that  we  lend. 

And  some  such  things  are  fair,  though  ill-defined, 

And  some  are  scathing,  like  the  wintry  wind ; 

And  some  begin,  and  some  will  never  end. 

63 


64  LETTER    Vll. 


in. 

How  can  I  think,  ye  tears!  that  I  have  been 

The  thing  I  was — so  doubting,  so  unfit, 

And  so  unblest,  with  brows  for  ever  knit, 

And  hair  unkempt,  and  face  becoming  lean 

And  cold  and  pale,  as  if  I  late  had  seen 

Medusa's  head,  and  all  the  scowls  of  it  ? 


IV. 

Oh,  why  is  this  ?     Oh,  why  have  I  so  long 
Brooded  on  grief,  and  made  myself  a  bane 
To  golden  fields  and  all  the  happy  plain 
Where  once  I  met  the  Lady  of  my  Song, 
The  lady  for  whose  sake  I  shall  be  strong, 
But  never  weak  or  diffident  again  ? 


I  was  too  shorn  of  hope.     I  did  employ 

Words  like  a  mourner;  and  to  Her  I  bow'd, 
As  one  might  kneel  to  Glory  in  its  shroud. 
But  I  am  crown'd  to-day,  and  not  so  coy — 
Crown'd  with  a  kiss,  and  sceptred  with  a  joy; 
And  all  the  world  shall  see  that  I  am  proud. 


HOPE. 


VI. 


I  shall  be  sated  now.     I  shall  receive 

More  than  the  guerdon  of  my  wildest  thought, 
More  than  the  most  that  ecstasy  has  taught 
To  saints  in  Heaven;  and  more  than  poets  weave 
In  madcap  verse,  to  warn  us,  or  deceive ; 

And  more  than  Adam  knew  ere  Eve  was  brought. 


VII. 

I  know  the  meaning  now  of  all  the  signs, 
And  all  the  joys  I  dreamt  of  in  my  dreams. 
I  realise  the  comfort  of  the  streams 

When  they  reflect  the  shadows  of  the  pines. 

I  know  that  there  is  hope  for  celandines, 
And  that  a  tree  is  merrier  than  it  seems. 


VIII. 

I  know  the  mighty  hills  have  much  to  tell ; 
And  that  they  quake,  at  times,  in  undertone, 
And  talk  to  stars,  because  so  much  alone 
And  so  unlov'd.     I  know  that,  in  the  dell, 
Flowers  are  betroth'd,  and  that  a  wedding-bell 
Rings  in  the  breeze  on  which  a  moth  has  flown. 


66  LETTER    Vll. 


IX. 

I  know  such  things,  because  to  loving  hearts 
Nature  is  keen,  and  pleasures,  long  delay'd, 
Quicken  the  pulse,  and  turn  a  truant  shade 
Into  a  sprite,  equipp'd  with  all  the  darts 
That  once  were  Cupid's;  and  the  day  departs, 
And  sun  and  moon  conjoin,  as  man  with  maid. 


The  lover  knows  how  grand  a  thing  is  love, 

How  grand,  how  sweet  a  thing,  and  how  divine 
More  than  the  pouring  out  of  choicest  wine; 

More  than  the  whiteness  of  the  whitest  dove ; 

More  than  the  glittering  of  the  stars  above; 
And  such  a  love,  O  Love !  is  thine  and  mine. 


XI. 

To  me  the  world,  to-day,  has  grown  so  fair 
I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  think  of  it. 
Visions  of  light  around  me  seem  to  flit, 
And  Phoebus  loosens  all  his  golden  hair 
Right  down  the  sky;  and  daisies  turn  and  stare 
At  things  we  see  not  with  our  human  wit. 


<*&£*%« 


HOPE.  67 


And  here,  beside  me,  there  are  mosses  green 
In  shelter'd  nooks,  and  gnats  in  bright  array, 
And  lordly  beetles  out  for  holiday; 
And  spiders  small  that  work  in  silver  sheen 
To  make  a  kirtle  for  the  Fairy  Queen, 
That  she  may  don  it  on  the  First  of  May. 


XIII. 

I  hear,  in  thought,  I  hear  the  very  words 
That  Arethusa,  turn'd  into  a  brook, 
Spoke  to  Diana,  when  her  leave  she  took 
Of  all  she  lov'd — low-weeping  as  the  birds 
Shrill'd  out  of  tune,  and  all  the  frighten'd  herds 
Scamper'd  to  death,  in  spite  of  pipe  and  crook. 


I  know,  to-day,  why  winds  were  made  to  sigh 

And  why  they  hide  themselves,  and  why  they  gloat 
In  some  old  ruin !     Mote  confers  with  mote, 
And  shell  with  shell ;  and  corals  live  and  die, 
And  die  and  live,  below  the  deep.     And  why  ? 
To  make  a  necklace  for  my  lady's  throat. 


68  LETTER    Vll. 


XV. 

And  yet  the  world,  in  all  its  varied  girth, 

Lacks  what  we  look  for.     There  is  something  base 
In  mere  existence — something  in  the  face 
Of  men  and  women  which  accepts  the  earth, 
And  all  its  havings,  as  its  right  of  birth, 
But  not  its  quittance,  not  its  resting-place. 


There  have  been  moments,  at  the  set  of  sun, 
When  I  have  long'd  for  wings  upon  the  wind, 
That  I  might  seek  a  planet  to  my  mind, 

More  full-develop'd  than  this  present  one; 

With  more  of  scope,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 
To  satisfy  the  wants  of  human  kind. 


XVII. 

A  world  with  thee,  a  home  in  some  remote 
And  unknown  region,  which  no  sage's  ken 
Has  compass'd  yet;  of  which  no  human  pen 
Has  traced  the  limits;  where  no  terrors  float 
In  wind  or  wave,  and  where  the  soul  may  note 
A  thousand  raptures  unreveal'd  to  men. 


HOPE.  69 


XVIII. 

To  be  transported  in  a  magic  car, 

On  some  transcendent  night  in  early  June, 
Beyond  the  horn'd  projections  of  the  moon; 
To  have  our  being  in  a  bridal  star, 
In  lands  of  light,  where  only  angels  are, 

Athwart  the  spaces  where  the  comets  swoon. 


XIX. 

To  be  all  this :  to  have  in  our  estate 

Worlds  without  stint,  and  quit  them  for  the  clay 
Of  some  new  planet  where  a  summer's  day 
Lasts  fifty  years;  and  there  to  celebrate 
Our  Golden  Wedding,  by  the  will  of  Fate — 
This  were  a  subject  for  a  seraph's  lay. 


This  were  a  life  to  live, — a  life  indeed, — 
A  thing  to  die  for;  if,  in  truth,  we  die 
When  we  but  put  our  mortal  vestments  by. 
This  were  a  climax  for  a  lover's  need 
Sweeter  than  songs,  and  holier  than  the  creed 
Of  half  the  zealots  who  have  sought  the  sky. 


■    '..        I  **•-, 

8?L  m 


LETTER    VII 


A  VISION. 


"V/'ES,  I  will  tell  thee  what,  a  week  ago, 
A     I  dreamt  of  thee,  and  all  the  joy  therein 
Which  I  conceiv'd,  and  all  the  holy  din 
Of  throbbing  music,  which  appear'd  to  flow 
From  room  to  room,  as  if  to  make  me  know 
The  power  thereof  to  lead  me  out  of  sin. 


Methought  I  saw  thee  in  a  ray  of  light, 

This  side  a  grove — a  dream  within  a  dream — 
With  eyes  of  tender  pleading,  and  the  gleam 

Of  far-off  summers  in  thy  tresses  bright  ; 

And  I  did  tremble  at  the  gracious  sight, 
As  one  who  sees   a  naiad  in  a  stream. 


74  LETTER   Vlll. 


in. 

I  follow'd  thee.     I  knew  that,  in  the  wood, 

Where  thus  we  met,  there  was  a  trysting-place. 
I  follow'd  thee,  as  mortals  in  a  chase 
Follow  the  deer.     I  knew  that  it  was  good 
To  track  thy  step,  and  promptly  understood 
The  fitful  blush  that  flutter'd  to  thy  face. 


IV. 

I  followed  thee  to  where  a  brook  did  run 

Close  to  a  grot ;  and  there  I  knelt  to  thee. 

And  then  a  score  of  birds  flew  over  me, — 

Birds  which  arrived  because  the  day  was  done, 

To  sing  the  Sanctus  of  the  setting  sun; 

And  then  I  heard  thy  voice  upon  the  lea. 


v. 

"  Follow!  "  it  cried.     I  rose  and  follow'd  fast; 
And,  in  my  dream,  I  felt  the  dream  was  true, 
And  that,  full  soon,  Titania,  with  her  crew 

Of  imps  and  fays,  would  meet  me  on  the  blast. 

But  this  was  hindered;  and  I  quickly  passed 
Into  the  valley  where  the  cedars  grew. 


A   VISION.  75 


VI. 

And  what  a  scene,  O  God !  and  what  repose, 
And  what  sad  splendour  in  the  burning  west : 
A  languid  sun  low-dropping  to  his  rest, 
And  incense  rising,  as  of  old  it  rose, 
To  do  him  honour  at  the  daylight's  close, — 

The  birds  entranced,  and  all  the  winds  repress'd. 


VII. 

I  followed  thee.     I  came  to  where  a  shrine 
Stood  in  the  trees,  and  where  an  oaken  gate 
Swung  in  the  air,  so  turbulent  of  late. 

I  touch'd  thy  hand;  it  quiver'd  into  mine; 

And  then  I  look'd  into  thy  face  benign, 

And  saw  the  smile  for  which  the  angels  wait. 


VIII. 

And  lo !  the  moon  had  sailed  into  the  main 
Of  that  blue  sky,  as  if  therein  did  poise 
A  silver  boat;  and  then  a  tuneful  noise 

Broke  from  the  copse  where  late  a  breeze  was  slain ; 

And  nightingales,  in  ecstasy  of  pain, 

Did  break  their  hearts  with  singing  the  old  joys. 


76  LETTER   V II. 


IX. 

"  Is  this  the  spot  ?  "  I  cried,  "  is  this  the  spot 
Where  I  must  tell  thee  all  my  heart's  desire? 
Is  this  the  time  when  I  must  drink  the  fire, 

And  eat  the  snow,  and  find  it  fever-hot? 

I  freeze  with  heat,  and  yet  I  fear  it  not; 
And  all  my  pulses  thrill  me  like  a  lyre." 


x. 

A  wondrous  light  was  thrown  upon  thy  face; 
It  was  the  light  within ;  it  was  the  ray 
Of  thine  own  soul.     And  then  a  voice  did  say, 
"  Glory  to  God  the  King,  and  Jesu's  grace 
Here  and  hereafter!"  and  about  the  place 
A  radiance  shone  surpassing  that  of  day. 


XI. 

It  was  thy  voice.     It  was  the  voice  I  prize 
More  than  the  sound  of  April  in  the  dales, 
More  than  the  songs  of  larks  and  nightingales, 

And  more  than  the  teachings  of  the  worldly-wise. 

"  Glory  to  God,"  it  said,  "for  in  the  skies, 
And  here  on  earth,  'tis  He  alone  prevails." 


p 

m 

sail-  ;l^;i»? 


A   VISION.  77 


XII. 

And  then  I  asked  thee:   "  Shall  I  tell  thee  now 
All  that  I  think  of,  when,  by  land  and  sea, 
The  days  and  nights  illume  the  world  for  me  ? 
And  how  I  muse  on  marriage,  as  I  bow 
In  God's  own  places,  with  a  throbbing  brow  ? 

And  how,  at  night,  I  dream  of  kissing  thee  ?  " 


XIII. 

But  thou  did'st  answer:  "  First  behold  this  man! 

He  is  thy  lord,  for  love's  and  lady's  sake; 

He  is  thy  master,  or  I  much  mistake." 
And  I  perceiv'd,  hard  by,  a  phantom  wan 
And  wild  and  kingly,  who  did,  walking,  span 

The  open  space  that  lay  beside  the  brake. 


XIV. 

It  was  Beethoven.     It  was  he  who  came 

From  monstrous  shades,  to  journey  yet  awhile 
In  pleasant  nooks,  and  vainly  seek  the  smile 
Of  one  lov'd  woman — she  to  whom  his  fame 
Had  been  a  glory  had  she  sought  the  same, 
And  lov'd  a  soul  so  grand,  so  free  from  guile. 


LETTER    Vlll. 


xv. 

It  was  the  Kaiser  of  the  land  of  song, 

The  giant-singer  who  did  storm  the  gates 
Of  Heaven  and  Hell,  a  man  to  whom  the  Fates 
Were  fierce  as  furies,  and  who  suffer'd  wrong 
And  ached  and  bore  it,  and  was  brave  and  strong, 
But  gaunt  as  ocean  when  its  rage  abates. 


XVI. 

I  knew  his  tread.     I  knew  him  by  his  look 
Of  pent-up  sorrow — by  his  hair  unkempt 
And  torn  attire — and  by  his  smile  exempt 
From  all  but  pleading.     Yet  his  body  shook 
With  some  great  joy;  and  onward  he  betook 
His  echoing  steps  the  way  that  I  had  dreamt. 


XVII. 

I  bow'd  my  head.     The  lordly  being  pass'd. 

He  was  my  king,  and  I  did  bow  to  him. 

And  when  I  rais'd  mine  eyes  they  were  as  dim 
As  tears  could  make  them.     And  the  moon,  aghast, 
Glared  in  the  sky  ;  and  westward  came  a  blast 

Which  shook  the  earth  like  shouts  of  cherubim. 


A    VISION.  79 


I  held  my  breath.     I  could  have  fled  the  place, 
As  men  have  fled  before  the  wrath  of  God. 
But  I  beheld  my  Lady  where  she  trod 
The  darken'd  path ;  and  I  did  cry  apace : 
"  Help  me,  my  Lady!  "  and  thy  lustrous  face 
Gladden'd  the  air,  and  quicken'd  all  the  sod. 


XIX. 

Then  did  I  hear  again  that  voice  of  cheer. 

"  Lovest  thou  me,"  it  said,  "  or  music  best  ?  " 
I  seized  thy  hand,  I  drew  thee  to  my  breast. 
"  Thee,  only  thee!  "  I  cried.      "  From  year  to  year, 
Thee,  only  thee — not  fame!  "   And  silver-clear, 
Thy  voice  responded :  "  God  will  grant  the  rest." 


I  kiss'd  thine  eyes.     I  kiss'd  them  where  the  blue 

Peep'd  smiling  forth ;  and  proudly  as  before 

I  heard  the  tones  that  thrill'd  me  to  the  core. 

"  If  thou  love  me,"  they  said,  "  if  thou  be  true, 

Thou  shalt  have  fame,  and  love,  and  music  too!" 

Entranced  I  kiss'd  the  lips  that  I  adore. 


-  \ 


■ 

j 


Jt  >flt 


. 


x 


j  "V" 


"""'it'.    ■ 


LETTER  IX. 


TO-MORROW. 


r\  LOVE  !    O  Love !    O  Gateway  of  Delight ! 

^^     Thou  porch  of  peace,  thou  pageant  of  the  prime 

Of  all  God's  creatures !  I  am  here  to  climb 
Thine  upward  steps,  and  daily  and  by  night 
To  gaze  beyond  them,  and  to  search  aright 
The  far-off  splendour  of  thy  track  sublime. 


ii. 

For,  in  thy  precincts,  on  the  further  side, 
Beyond  the  turret  where  the  bells  are  rung, 
Beyond  the  chapel  where  the  rites  are  sung, 

There  is  a  garden  fit  for  any  bride. 

O  Love !  by  thee,  by  thee  are  sanctified 

The  joys  thereof  to  keep  our  spirits  young. 
83 


84  LETTER   IX. 


in. 

By  thee,  dear  Love !  by  thee,  if  all  be  well — 
And  we  be  wise  enough  to  own  the  touch 
Of  some  bright  folly  that  has  thrill'd  us  much — 

By  thee,  till  death,  we  may  regain  the  spell 

Of  wizard  Merlin,  and  in  every  dell 

Confront  a  Muse,  and  bow  to  it  as  such. 


IV. 

Love !   Happy  Love !   Behold  me  where  I  stand 
This  side  thy  portal,  with  my  straining  eyes 
Turn'd  to  the  Future.     Cloudless  are  the  skies, 

And,  far  adown  the  road  which  thou  hast  spann'd, 

I  see  the  groves  of  that  elected  land 
Which  is  the  place  I  call  my  paradise. 


But  what  is  this?     The  plains  are  known  to  me; 
The  hills  are  known,  the  fields,  the  little  fence, 
The  noisy  brook  as  clear  as  innocence, 
And  this  old  oak,  the  wonder  of  the  lea, 
Which  stops  the  wind  to  know  if  there  shall  be 
Sorrow  for  men,  or  pride,  or  recompense. 


TO-MORROW.  85 


VI. 

I  know  these  things,  yet  hold  it  little  blame 

To  know  them  not,  though  in  their  proud  array, 
The  flowers  advance  to  make  the  world  so  gay. 
Ah,  what  a  change !     The  things  I  know  by  name 
Look  unfamiliar  all,  and,  like  a  flame, 
The  roses  burn  upon  the  hedge  to-day. 


VII. 

The  grass  is  velvet.     There  are  pearls  thereon, 
And  golden  signs,  and  braid  that  doth  appear 
Made  for  a  bridal.     This  is  fairy  gear 

If  I  mistake  not.     I  shall  know  anon. 

Nature  herself  will  teach  me  how  to  con 

The  new-found  words  to  thank  the  glowing  year. 


VIII. 

This  is  the  path  that  led  me  to  the  brook; 
And  this  the  mead,  and  this  the  mossy  slope/ 
And  this  the  place  where  breezes  did  elope 

With  giddy  moths,  enamour'd  of  a  look; 

And  here  I  sat  alone,  or  with  a  book, 

Dreaming  the  dreams  of  constancy  and  hope. 


86  LETTER   IX. 


IX. 

I  loved  the  river  well ;  but  not  till  now 
Did  I  perceive  the  marvels  of  the  shore. 
This  is  a  cave,  and  this  an  emerald  floor; 
And  here  Sir  Englantine  might  make  a  vow, 
And  here  a  king,  a  guilty  king,  might  bow 
Before  a  child,  and  break  his  word  no  more. 


The  day  is  dying.     I  shall  see  him  die, 
And  I  shall  watch  the  sunset,  and  the  red 
Of  all  that  splendour  when  the  day  is  dead. 
And  I  shall  see  the  stars  upon  the  sky, 
And  think  them  torches  that  are  lit  on  high 
To  light  the  Lord  Apollo  to  his  bed. 


XI. 

And  sweet  To-morrow,  like  a  golden  bark, 
Will  call  for  me,  and  lead  me  on  apace 
To  where  I  shall  behold,  in  all  her  grace, 
Mine  own  true  Lady,  whom  a  happy  lark 
Did  late  salute,  appointing,  after  dark, 
A  nightingale  to  carol  in  his  place. 


TO-MORROW.  87 


XII. 

Oh,  come  to  me !  Oh,  come,  beloved  day, 
O  sweet  To-morrow !  Youngest  of  the  sons 
Of  old  King  Time,  to  whom  Creation  runs 
As  men  to  God.     Oh,  quickly  with  thy  ray 
Anoint  my  head,  and  teach  me  how  to  pray, 
As  gentle  Jesus  taught  the  little  ones. 


XIII. 

I  am  aweary  of  the  waiting  hours, 

I  am  aweary  of  the  tardy  night. 

The  hungry  moments  rob  me  of  delight, 
The  crawling  minutes  steal  away  my  powers ; 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart,  as  one  who  cowers, 

In  lonely  haunts,  remov'd  from  human  sight. 


XIV. 

How  shall  I  think  the  night  was  meant  for  sleep, 
When  I  must  count  the  dreadful  hours  thereof, 
And  cannot  beat  them  down,  or  bid  them  doff 
Their  hateful  masks?     A  man  may  wake  and  weep 
From  hour  to  hour,  and,  in  the  silence  deep, 
See  shadows  move,  and  almost  hear  them  scoff. 


SS  LETTER   IX. 


Oh,  come  to  me,  To-morrow !  like  a  friend, 
And  not  as  one  who  bideth  for  the  clock. 
Be  swift  to  come,  and  I  will  hear  thee  knock, 
And  though  the  night  refuse  to  make  an  end 
Of  her  dull  peace,  I  promptly  will  descend 
And  let  thee  in,  and  thank  thee  for  the  shock. 


Dear,  good  To-morrow !  in  my  life,  till  now, 
I  did  not  think  to  need  thee  quite  so  soon. 
I  did  not  think  that  I  should  hate  the  moon, 
Or  new  or  old,  or  that  my  fevered  brow 
Requir'd  the  sun  to  cool  it.     I  will  bow 

To  this  new  day,  that  he  may  grant  the  boon. 

XVII. 

Yes,  'twill  consent.     The  day  will  dawn  at  last. 

Day  and  the  tide  approach.     They  cannot  rest. 

They  must  approach.     They  must  by  every  test 
Of  all  men's  knowledge,  neither  slow  nor  fast, 
Approach  and  front  us.     When  the  night  is  past, 

The  morrow's  dawn  will  lead  me  to  my  quest. 


TO-MORROW.  89 


XVIII. 

Then  shall  I  tremble  greatly,  and  be  glad, 
For  I  shall  meet  my  true-love  all  alone, 
And  none  shall  tell  me  of  her  dainty  zone, 

And  none  shall  say  how  sweetly  she  is  clad ; 

But  I  shall  know  it.     Men  may  call  me  mad; 

But  I  shall  know  how  bright  the  world  has  grown. 


XIX. 

There  is  a  grammar  of  the  lips  and  eyes, 

And  I  have  learnt  it.     There  are  tokens  sure 
Of  trust  in  love ;  and  I  have  found  them  pure. 

Is  love  the  guerdon  then  ?     Is  love  the  prize  ? 

It  is!     It  is!     We  find  it  in  the  skies, 

And  here  on  earth  'tis  all  that  will  endure. 


XX. 

All  things  for  love.     All  things  in  some  divine 
And  wish'd  for  way,  conspire,  as  Nature  knows, 
To  some  great  good.     Where'er  a  daisy  grows 
There  grows  a  joy.     The  forest-trees  combine 
To  talk  of  peace  when  mortals  would  repine ; 
And  he  is  false  to  God  who  flouts  the  rose. 


, 


V 


LETTER  X. 


A  RETROSPECT. 


T   WALK  again  beside  the  roaring  sea, 
And  once  again  I  harken  to  the  speech 
Of  waves  exulting  on  the  madden'd  beach. 
A  sound  of  awful  joy  it  seems  to  me, 
A  shuddering  sound  of  God's  eternity, — 
Telling  of  things  beyond  the  sage's  reach. 


I  walk  alone.     I  see  the  bounding  waves 

Curl'd  into  foam.     I  watch  them  as  they  leap 
Like  wild  sea-horses  loosen'd  from  the  deep. 
And  well  I  know  that  they  have  seen  the  graves 
Of  shipwreck'd  sailors ;  for  Disaster  paves 
The  fearful  fields  where  reapers  cannot  reap. 


94  LETTER  X. 


in. 

Out  there,  in  islands  where  the  summer  sun 

Goes  down  in  tempest,  there  are  loathsome  things 
That  crawl  to  shore,  and  flap  unsightly  wings. 
But  here  there  are  no  monsters  that  can  run 
To  catch  the  limbs  of  bathers ;  no !  not  one ; 
And  here  the  wind  is  harmless  when  it  stings. 


IV. 

There  is  a  glamour  all  about  the  bay, 

As  if  the  nymphs  of  Greece  had  tarried  here. 
The  sands  are  golden,  and  the  rocks  appear 
Crested  with  silver ;  and  the  breezes  play 
Snatches  of  song  they  humm'd  when  far  away, 
And  then  are  hush'd,  as  if  from  sudden  fear. 


They  think  of  thee.     They  hunt;  they  meditate. 
They  will  not  quit  the  shore  till  they  have  seen 
The  very  spot  where  thou  did'st  stand  serene 
In  all  thy  beauty;  and  of  me  they  prate, 
Knowing  I  love  thee.     And,  like  one  elate, 
The  grand  old  sea  remembers  what  hath  been. 


I 


A   RETROSPECT.  95 


VI. 

How  many  hours,  how  many  days  we  met 
Here  on  the  beach,  in  that  delirious  time 
When  all  the  waves  appear'd  to  break  in  rhyme. 
Life  was  a  joy,  and  love  was  like  a  debt 
Paid  and  repaid  in  kisses — good  to  get, 

And  good  to  lose — unhoarded,  yet  sublime. 


VII. 

We  wander'd  here.     We  saw  the  tide  advance, 
We  saw  it  ebb.     We  saw  the  widow'd  shore 
Waiting  for  Ocean  with  its  organ  roar, 
Knowing  that,  day  by  day,  through  happy  chance, 
She  would  be  wooed  anew,  amid  the  dance 
Of  bridal  waves   high-bounding  as  before. 


VIII. 

And  I  remember  how,  at  flush  of  morn, 
Thou  didst  depart  alone,  to  find  a  nook 
Where  none  could  see  thee;  where  a  lover's  look 

Were  profanation  worse  than  any  scorn ; 

And  how  I  went  my  way,  among  the  corn, 
To  wait  for  thee  beside  the  Shepherd's  brook. 


96  LETTER  X. 


IX. 

And  lo !  from  out  a  cave  thou  didst  emerge, 
Sweet  as  thyself,  the  flower  of  Womankind. 
I  know  'twas  thus;  for,  in  my  secret  mind, 
I  see  thee  now.     I  see  thee  in  the  surge 
Of  those  wild  waves,  well  knowing  that  they  urge 
Some  idle  wish,  untalk'd-of  to  the  wind. 


x. 

I  think  the  beach  was  thankful  to  have  known 
Thy  warm,  white  body,  and  the  blessedness 
Of  thy  first  shiver ;  and  I  well  can  guess 
How,  when  thy  limbs  were  toss'd  and  overthrown, 
The  sea  was  pleased,  and  every  smallest  stone, 
And  every  wave,  was  proud  of  thy  caress. 


XI. 

A  maiden  diving,  with  dishevell'd  hair, 
Sheer  from  a  rock ;  a  syren  of  the  deep 
Call'd  into  action,  ere  a  wave  could  leap 

Breast-high  to  daunt  her ;  Daphne,  by  a  prayer,. 

Lured  from  a  forest  for  the  sea  to  bear — 
This  were  a  dream  to  fill  a  poet's  sleep. 


A   RETROSPECT.  97 


This  were  a  thing  for  Phoebus  to  have  eyed ; 
And  he  did  eye  it.     Yea,  the  Deathless  One 
Did  eye  thy  beauty.     It  was  madly  done. 

He  saw  thee  in  the  rising  of  the  tide. 

He  saw  thee  well.     The  truth  is  not  denied; 
The  shore  was  proud  to  show  thee  to  the  sun. 


Never  since  Venus,  at  a  god's  decree, 

Uprose  from  ocean,  has  there  lived  on  earth 
A  face  like  thine,  a  form  of  so  much  worth ; 
And  nowhere  has  the  moon-obeying  sea 
Known  such  perfection,  down  from  head  to  knee, 
And  knee  to  foot,  since  that  Olympian  birth. 


And,  sooth,  the  moon  was  anxious  to  have  placed 
Her  head  beside  thee,  on  the  waters  bright. 
But  she  was  foil'd;  for  thou  so  late  at  night 
Wouldst  not  go  forth :  no !  not  to  be  embraced 
By  Nature's  Queen,  though,  round  about  the  waist, 
vShe  would  have  rin^'d  thee  with  her  softest  light. 


98  LETTER  X. 


XV. 

Ah  me !  had  I  a  lute  of  sovereign  power 
I  would  enlarge  on  this,  and  plainly  show 
That  there  is  nothing  like  thee  here  below, — 
Nothing  so  comely,  nothing  in  its  dower 
Of  youth  and  grace,  so  like  a  human  flower, 
And  white  withal,  and  guiltless  as  the  snow. 


XVI. 

For  thou  art  fair  as  lilies,  with  the  flush 
That  roses  have  while  waiting  for  a  kiss; 
And  when  thou  smilest  nothing  comes  amiss. 

The  earth  is  glad  to  see  thy  dimpled  blush. 

Had  I  the  lute  of  Orpheus  I  would  hush 
All  meaner  sounds  to  tell  the  stars  of  this. 


XVII. 

I  would,  I  swear,  by  Pallas'  own  consent, 
Inform  all  creatures  whom  the  stars  behold 
That  thou  art  mine,  and  that  a  pen  of  gold, 
With  ink  of  fire,  though  by  an  angel  lent, 
Were  all  too  poor  to  tell  my  true  content, 

And  how  I  love  thee  seven  times  seventy  fold. 


A   RETROSPECT.  99 


And  sure  am  I  that,  in  the  ancient  days, 

Achilles  heard  no  voice  so  passing  sweet, 

And  none  so  trancing,  none  that  could  compete 

With  thine  for  fervour;  none,  in  waterways 

Where  Nepture  dwelt,  so  worthy  of  the  praise 

Of  Thetis'  son,  the  sure  and  swift  of  feet. 


XIX. 

He  never  met  upon  the  plains  of  Troy 
Goddess  or  maiden  so  divinely  fraught. 
Not  Helen's  self,  for  whom  the  Trojans  fought, 
Was  like  to  thee.     Her  love  had  much  alloy, 
But  thine  has  none.      Her  beauty  was  a  toy, 
But  thine's  a  gem,  unsullied  and  unbought. 


And  ne'er  was  seen  by  poet,  in  a  sweven, 
An  eye  like  thine,  a  face  so  fair  to  see 
As  that  which  makes  the  sunlight  sweet  to  me. 
Nor  need  I  wait  for  death,  or  for  the  levin 
In  yonder  cloud,  to  find  the  path  to  Heaven. 
It  fronts  me  here.     'Tis  manifest  in  thee ! 


. 


LETTER  XI. 


FAITH. 


]\TOW  will  I  sing  to  God  a  song  of  praise, 

*       And  thank  the  morning  for  the  light  it  brings. 

Aye !  and  the  earth  for  every  flower  that  springs, 
And  every  tree  that,  in  the  jocund  days, 
Thrills  to  the  blast.     My  voice   I  will  upraise 
To  thank  the  world  for  every  bird  that  sings. 


ii. 

I  will  unpack  my  mind  of  all  its  fears, 
I  will  advance  to  where  the  matin  fires 
Absorb  the  hills.     My  hopes  and  my  desires 
Will  lead  me  safe ;  and  day  will  have  no  tears 
And  night  no  torture,  as  in  former  years, 
To  warp  my  nature  when  my  soul  aspires. 


104  LETTER  XI. 


in. 

I  will  endure.     I  will  not  strive  to  peep 
Behind  the  barriers  of  the  days  to  come, 
Nor,  adding  up  the  figures  of  a  sum, 

Dispose  of  prayers  as  men  dispose  of  sleep. 

I  cannot  count  the  stars,  or  walk  the  deep ; 
But  I  can  pray,  and  Faith  shall  not  be  dumb. 


I  take  myself  and  thee  as  mine  estate — 

Thee  and  myself.     The  world  is  centred  there. 
If  thou  be  well  I  know  the  skies  are  fair ; 
If  not,  they  press  me  down  with  leaden  weight, 
And  all  is  dark ;  and  morning  comes  too  late ; 
And  all  the  birds  are  tuneless  in  the  air. 


I  need  but  thee :  thee  only.     Thou  alone 
Art  all  ray  joy:  a  something  to  the  sight 
As  grand  as  Silence,  and  as  snowy  white. 
And  do  thou  pardon  if  I  make  it  known, 
As  oft  I  do,  with  mine  Amati's  tone, 
Amid  the  stillness  of  the  starry  night. 


FAITH.  io  = 


VI. 


Oh,  give  me  pity  of  thy  heart  and  mind, 
Mine  own  sweet  Lady,  if  I  vex  thee  now. 
If  the  repeating  of  my  constant  vow 
Be  undesired,  have  pity!  I  were  blind, 
And  deaf  and  dumb,  and  mad,  were  I  inclined 
To  curb  my  feelings  when  to  thee  I  bow. 


VII. 

Forgive  the  challenge  of  my  longing  lips 
If  these  offend  thee;  and  forgive  me,  too. 
If  I  perceive,  within  thine  eyes  of  blue, 
More  than  I  utter — more  than,  in  eclipse, 
A  man  may  note  atween  the  argent  tips 
Of  frighted  Dian  whom  the  Fates  pursue. 


VIII. 

It  is  the  thing  I  dream  of;  'tis  the  thing 

We  know  as  rapture,  when,  with  sudden  thrill, 
It  snares  the  heart  and  subjugates  the  will; 
I  mean  the  pride,  the  power,  by  which  we  cling 
To  natures  nobler  than  the  ones  we  bring, 
To  keep  entire  the  fire  we  cannot  chill. 


io6  LETTER   XL 


IX. 

Coyest  of  nymphs,  my  Lady !  whom  I  seek 
As  sailors  seek  salvation  out  at  sea, 
And  poets  fame,  and  soldiers  victory, 
Behold!  I  note  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 
The  flag  of  truce  that  tells  me  thou  art  meek 
And  soon  wilt  yield  thy  fortress  up  to  me. 


It  is  thy  soul;  it  is  thy  soul  in  arms 

Which  thus  I  conquer.     All  thy  furtive  sighs, 
And  all  the  glances  of  thy  wistful  eyes, 

Proclaim  the  swift  surrender  of  thy  charms. 

I  kiss  thy  hand;  and  tremors  and  alarms 
Discard,  in  parting,  all  their  late  disguise. 


XI. 

They  were  not  foes.     They  knew  me,  one  and  all ; 
They  knew  I  lov'd  thee,  and  they  lured  me  on 
To  try  my  fortune,  and  to  wait  thereon 
For  just  reward.     The  scaling  of  the  wall 
Was  not  the  meed;  there  came  the  festival, 

And  now  there  comes  the  crown  that  I  must  don. 


FAITH.  107 


O  my  Beloved !    I  am  king  of  thee, 

And  thou  my  queen ;  and  I  will  wear  the  crown 
A  little  moment,  for  thy  love's  renown. 
Yea,  for  a  moment,  it  shall  circle  me, 
And  then  be  thine,  so  thou,  upon  thy  knee, 
Do  seek  the  same,  with  all  thy  tresses  down. 


XIII. 

For  woman  still  is  mistress  of  the  man, 

Though  man  be  master.      'Tis  the  woman's  right 
To  choose  her  king,  and  crown  him  in  her  sight, 

And  make  him  feel  the  pressure  of  the  span 

Of  her  soft  arms,  as  only  woman  can ; 

For,  with  her  weakness,  she  excels  his  might. 


XIV. 

It  is  her  joy  indeed  to  be  so  frail 

That  he  must  shield  her;  he  of  all  the  world 
Whom  most  she  loves;  and  then,  if  he  be  hurl'd 
To  depths  of  sorrow,  she  will  more  avail 
Than  half  a  senate.     Troubles  may  assail, 
But  she  will  guide  him  by  her  lips  impearl'd. 


io8  LETTER.   XL 


xv. 

A  woman  clung  to  Caesar;  he  was  great, 

And  great  the  power  he  gain'd  by  sea  and  land. 
But  when  he  wrong'd  her,  when  he  spurn'd  the  hand 

Which  once  he  knelt  to,  when  he  scoff'd  at  Fate, 

Glory  dispers'd,  and  left  him  desolate; 

For  God  remember'd  all  that  first  was  plann'd. 


xvi. 

The  cannon's  roar,  the  wisdom  of  the  sage, 

The  strength  of  armies,  and  the  thrall  of  kings- 
All  these  are  weak  compared  to  weaker  things. 
Napoleon  fell  because,  in  puny  rage, 
He  wrong'd  his  house;  and  earth  became  a  cage 
For  this  poor  eagle  with  his  batter'd  wings. 


XVII. 

Believe  me,  Love !     I  honour,  night  and  day, 
The  name  of  Woman.     'Tis  the  nobler  sex. 
Villains  may  shame  it ;  sorrows  may  perplex ; 
But  still  'tis  watchful.     Man  may  take  away 
All  its  possessions,  all  its  worldly  sway, 
And  yet  be  worshipp'd  by  the  soul  he  wrecks. 


FAITH.  109 


XVIII. 

A  word  of  love  to  Woman  is  as  sweet 

As  nectar'd  rapture  in  a  golden  bowl ; 

And  when  she  quaffs  the  heavens  asunder  roll, 
And  God  looks  through.  And,  from  his  judgment-seat, 
He  blesses  those  who  part,  and  those  who  meet, 

And  those  who  join  the  links  of  soul  with  soul. 


XIX. 

And  are  there  none  untrue  ?     God  knows  there  are ! 
Aye,  there  are  those  who  learn  in  time  the  laugh 
That  ends  in  madness — women  who  for  chaff 
Have  sold  their  corn — who  seek  no  guiding-star, 
And  find  no  faith  to  light  them  from  afar; 
Of  whom  'tis  said:   "  They  need  no  epitaph." 


xx. 

All  this  is  known;  but  lo!  for  sake  of  One 
Who  lives  in  glory — for  my  mother's  sake, 
For  thine,  and  hers,  O  Love ! — I  pity  take 

On  all  poor  women.     Jesu's  will  be  done ! 

Honour  for  all,  and  infamy  for  none, 

This  side  the  borders  of  the  burning  lake. 


I 

5L 


LETTER  XII. 


VICTORY. 


]\TOW  have  I  reach'd  the  goal  of  my  desire, 
For  thou  hast  sworn — as  sweetly  as  a  bell 
Makes  out  its  chime — the  oath  I  love  to  tell, 

The  fealty-oath  of  which  I  never  tire. 

The  lordly  forest  seems  a  giant's  lyre, 

And  sings,  and  rings,  the  thoughts  that  o'er  it  swell. 


ii. 

The  air  is  fill'd  with  voices.     I  have  found 
Comfort  at  last,  enthralment,  and  a  joy 
Past  all  belief;  a  peace  without  alloy. 
There  is  a  splendour  all  about  the  ground 
As  if  from  Eden,  when  the  world  was  drown'd, 

Something  had  come  which  death  could  not  destroy, 


H4  LETTER   XII. 


in.    . 

It  seems,  indeed,  as  if  to  me  were  sent 

A  smile  from  Heaven — as  if  to-day  the  clods 
Were  lined  with  silk — the  trees  divining  rods, 

And  roses  gems  for  some  high  tournament. 

I  should  not  be  so  proud,  or  so  content, 
If  I  could  sup,  to-night,  with  all  the  gods. 


A  shrined  saint  would  change  his  place  with  me 
If  he  but  knew  the  worth  of  what  I  feel. 
He  is  enrobed  indeed,  and  for  his  weal 

Hath  much  concern ;  but  how  forlorn  is  he ! 

How  pale  his  pomp !     He  cannot  sue  to  thee, 
But  I  am  sainted  every  time  I  kneel. 


I  walk'd  abroad,  to-day,  ere  yet  the  dark 

Had  left  the  hills,  and  down  the  beaten  road 
I  saunter'd  forth  a  mile  from  mine  abode. 
I  heard,  afar,  the  watchdog's  sudden  bark, 
And,  near  at  hand,  the  tuning  of  a  lark, 
Safe  in  its  nest,  but  weighted  with  an  ode. 


VICTORY.  115 


VI. 

The  moon  was  pacing  up  the  sky  serene, 
Pallid  and  pure,  as  if  she  late  had  shown 
Her  outmost  side,  and  fear'd  to  make  it  known; 
And,  like  a  nun,  she  gazed  upon  the  scene 
From  bars  of  cloud  that  seemed  to  stand  between, 
And  pray'd  and  smiled,  and  smiled  and  pray'd  alone. 


VII. 

The  stars  had  fled.     Not  one  remain'd  behind 
To  warn  or  comfort;  or  to  make  amends 
For  hope  delay 'd, — for  ecstasy  that  ends 
At  dawn's  approach.     The  firmament  was  blind 
Of  all  its  eyes ;  and,  wanton  up  the  wind, 

There  came  the  shuddering  that  the  twilight  sends. 


VIII. 

The  hills  exulted  at  the  Morning's  birth, — 
And  clouds  assembled,  quick,  as  heralds  run 
Before  a  king  to  say  the  fight  is  won. 
The  rich,  warm  daylight  fell  upon  the  earth 
Like  wine  outpour'd  in  madness,  or  in  mirth, 
To  celebrate  the  rising  of  the  sun. 


n6  LETTER   XII. 


IX. 

And  when  the  soaring  lark  had  done  its  prayer, 
The  holy  thing,  self -poised  amid  the  blue 
Of  that  great  sky,  did  seem,  a  space  or  two, 
To  pause  and  think,  and  then  did  clip  the  air 
And  dropped  to  earth  to  claim  his  guerdon  there. 

"  Thank  God !  "  I  cried,  "  My  dearest  dream  is  true !  " 


I  was  too  happy,  then,  to  leap  and  dance ; 
But  I  could  ponder ;  I  could  gaze  and  gaze 
From  earth  to  sky  and  back  to  woodland  ways. 
The  bird  had  thrill'd  my  heart,  and  cheer'd  my  glance, 
For  he  had  found  to-day  his  nest-romance, 

And  lov'd  a  mate,  and  crown'd  her  with  his  praise. 


XI. 

O  Love !  my  Love !  I  would  not  for  a  throne, 
I  would  not  for  the  thrones  of  all  the  kings 
Who  yet  have  liv'd,  or  for  a  seraph's  wings, 
Or  for  the  nod  of  Jove  when  night  hath  flown, 
Consent  to  rule  an  empire  all  alone. 
No!  I  must  have  the  grace  of  our  two  rings. 


I/ICTORY.  ii 


XII. 

I  must  possess  thee  from  the  crowning  curl 
Down  to  the  feet,  and  from  the  beaming  eye 
Down  to  the  bosom  where  my  treasures  lie. 
From  blush  to  blush,  and  from  the  rows  of  pearl 
That  light  thy  smile,  I  must  possess  thee,  girl, 
And  be  thy  lord  and  master  till  I  die. 


XIII. 

This,  and  no  less :  the  keeper  of  thy  fame, 

The  proud  controller  of  each  silken  tress, 

And  each  dear  item  of  thy  loveliness, 

And  every  oath,  and  every  dainty  name 

Known  to  a  bride :  a  picture  in  a  frame 

Of  golden  hair,  to  turn  to  and  caress. 


XIV. 

And  though  I  know  thee  prone,  in  vacant  hours, 
To  laugh  and  talk  with  those  who  circumvent 
And  make  mad  speeches;  though  I  know  the  bent 
Of  some  such  men,  and  though  in  ladies'  bowers 
They  brag  of  swords — I  know  my  proven  powers ; 
I  know  myself  and  thee,  and  am  content. 


n8  LETTER  XII. 


xv. 

I  know  myself;  and  why  should  I  demur  ? 

The  lily,  bowing  to  the  breeze's  play, 

Is  not  forgetful  of  the  sun  in  May. 
She  is  his  nymph,  and  with  a  servitor 
She  doth  but  jest.     The  sun  looks  down  at  her, 

And  knows  her  true,  and  loves  her  day  by  day. 


xvi. 

E'en  so  I  thee,  O  Lady  of  my  Heart ! 
O  Lady  white  as  lilies  on  the  lea, 
And  fair  as  foam  upon  the  ocean  free 

Whereon  the  sun  hath  sent  a  shining  dart ! 

E'en  so  I  love  thee,  blameless  as  thou  art, 
And  with  my  soul's  desire  I  compass  thee. 


XVII. 

For  thou  art  Woman  in  the  sweetest  sense 
Of  true  endowment,  and  a  bride  indeed 
Fit  for  Apollo.     This  is  Woman's  need: 
To  be  a  beacon  when  the  air  is  dense, 
A  bower  of  peace,  a  life-long  recompense  — 
This  is  the  sum  of  Woman's  worldly  creed. 


VICTORY.  119 


And  what  is  Man  the  while  ?     And  what  his  will  ? 

And  what  the  furtherance  of  his  earthly  hope  ? 

To  turn  to  Faith,  to  turn,  as  to  a  rope 
A  drowning  sailor;  all  his  blood  to  spill 
For  One  he  loves,  to  keep  her  out  of  ill — 

This  is  the  will  of  Man,  and  this  his  scope. 


XIX. 


'Tis  like  the  tranquil  sea,  that  knows  anon 
It  can  be  wild,  and  keep  away  from  home 
A  thousand  ships — and  lash  itself  to  foam — 
And  beat  the  shore,  and  all  that  lies  thereon — 
And  catch  the  thunder  ere  the  flash  has  gone 
Forth  from  the  cloud  that  spans  it  like  a  dome. 


xx. 

This  is  the  will  of  Man,  and  this  is  mine. 

But  lo !     I  love  thee  more  than  wealth  or  fame, 
More  than  myself,  and  more  than  those  who  came 

With  Christ's  commission  from  the  goal  divine. 

Soul  of  my  soul,  and  mine  as  I  am  thine, 
I  cling  to  thee,  my  Life !  as  fire  to  flame. 


fllMscellaneous 
poems. 


^J&tiii#c 


ANTEROS. 


r"FHIS  is  the  feast-day  of  my  soul  and  me, 

For  I  am  half  a  god  and  half  a  man. 
These  are  the  hours  in  which  are  heard  by  sea, 
By  land  and  wave,  and  in  the  realms  of  space, 

The  lute-like  sounds  which  sanctify  my  span, 
And  give  me  power  to  sway  the  human  race. 


ii. 


I  am  the  king  whom  men  call  Lucifer, 
I  am  the  genius  of  the  nether  spheres. 

Give  me  my  Christian  name,  and  I  demur. 

Call  me  a  Greek,  and  straightway  I  rejoice. 
Yea,  I  am  Anteros,  and  with  my  tears 

I  salt  the  earth  that  gladdens  at  my  voice. 


124  ANTEROS. 


in. 

I  am  old  Anteros;  a  young,  old  god; 

A  sage  who  smiles  and  limps  upon  a  crutch. 
But  I  can  turn  my  crutch  into  a  rod, 
And  change  my  rod  into  a  crown  of  wood. 

Yea,  I  am  he  who  conquers  with  a  touch, 
And  plays  with  poisons  till  he  makes  them  good. 


IV. 

The  sun,  uprising  with  his  golden  hair, 
Is  mine  apostle;  and  he  serves  me  well. 

Thoughts  and  desires  of  mine,  beyond  compare, 

Thrill  at  his  touch.     The  moon,  so  lost  in  thought, 
Has  pined  for  love;  and  wanderers  out  of  hell, 

And  saints  from  heaven,  have  known  what  I  have 
taught. 


v. 

Great  are  my  griefs;  my  joys  are  multiplex; 

And  beasts  and  birds  and  men  my  subjects  are; 
Yea,  all  created  things  that  have  a  sex, 
And  flies  and  flowers  and  monsters  of  the  mere ; 

All  these,  and  more,  proclaim  me  from  afar, 
And  sing  my  marriage  songs  from  year  to  year. 


ANTEROS.  I2: 


VI. 

There  are  no  bridals  but  the  ones  I  make ; 

For  men  are  quicken'd  when  they  turn  to  me. 
The  soul  obeys  me  for  its  body's  sake, 
And  each  is  form'd  for  each,  as  day  for  night. 

'Tis  but  the  soul  can  pay  the  body's  fee 
To  win  the  wisdom  of  a  fool's  delight. 


VII. 


Yea,  this  is  so.     My  clerks  have  set  it  down, 

And  birds  have  blabbed  it  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 

The  flowers  have  guessed  it,  and,  in  bower  and  town, 

Lovers  have  sung  the  songs  that  I  have  made. 
Give  me  your  lives,  O  mortals,  and,  for  leaven, 

Ye  shall  receive  the  fires  that  cannot  fade. 


vm. 

O  men  !   O  maidens !  O  ye  listless  ones ! 

Ye  who  desert  my  temples  in  the  East, 
Ye  who  reject  the  rays  of  summer  suns, 
And  cling  to  shadows  in  the  wilderness ; 

Why  are  ye  sad?    Why  frown  ye  at  the  feast, 
Ye  who  have  eyes  to  see  and  lips  to  press? 


126  ANTEROS. 


IX. 

Why,  for  a  wisdom  that  ye  will  not  prove, 
A  joy  that  crushes  and  a  love  that  stings, 

A  freak,  a  frenzy  in  a  fated  groove, 

A  thing  of  nothing  born  of  less  than  nought — 
Why  in  your  hearts  do  ye  desire  these  things. 

Ye  who  abhor  the  joys  that  ye  have  sought? 


See,  see!  I  weep,  but  I  can  jest  at  times; 

Yea,  I  can  dance  and  toss  my  tears  away. 
The  sighs  I  breathe  are  fragrant  as  the  rhymes 
Of  men  and  maids  whose  hearts  are  overthrown. 

I  am  the  God  for  whom  all  maidens  pray, 
But  none  shall  have  me  for  herself  alone. 


XI. 

No;  I  have  love  enough,  here  where  I  stand, 
To  marry  fifty  maids  in  their  degree ; 

Aye,  fifty  times  five  thousand  in  a  band, 

And  every  bride  the  proxy  of  a  score. 
Want  ye  a  mate  for  millions  ?     I  am  he. 

Glory  is  mine,  and  glee-time  evermore. 


ANTEROS.  127 


XII. 


O  men  !  O  masters!     0  ye  kings  of  grief! 

Ye  who  control  the  world  but  not  the  grave, 
What  have  ye  done  to  make  delight  so  brief, 
Ye  who  have  spurn'd  the  minstrel  and  the  lyre? 

I  will  not  say:   "  Be  patient."     Ye  are  brave; 
And  ye  shall  guess  the  pangs  of  my  desire. 


XIII. 

There  shall  be  traitors  in  the  court  of  love, 
And  tears  and  torture  and  the  bliss  of  pain. 

The  maids  of  men  shall  seek  the  gods  above, 

And  drink  the  nectar  of  the  golden  lake. 

Blessed  are  they  for  whom  the  gods  are  fain ; 

They  shall  be  glad  for  love's  and  pity's  sake. 


XIV. 

They  shall  be  taught  the  songs  the  syrens  know, 
The  wave's  lament,  the  west  wind's  psalmistry, 

The  secrets  of  the  south  and  of  the  snow, 

The  wherewithal  of  day,  and  death,  and  night. 
O  men !  O  maidens!  pray  no  prayer  for  me, 

But  sing  to  me  the  songs  of  my  delight. 


128  ANT  EROS. 


XV. 

Aye,  sing  to  me  the  songs  I  love  to  hear, 
And  let  the  sound  thereof  ascend  to  heaven. 

And  let  the  singers,  with  a  voice  of  cheer, 

Announce  my  name  to  all  the  ends  of  earth ; 
And  let  my  servants,  seventy  times  and  seven, 

Re-shout  the  raptures  of  my  Samian  mirth ! 


xvi. 

Let  joy  prevail,  and  Frenzy,  like  a  flame, 
Seize  all  the  souls  of  men  for  sake  of  me. 

For  I  will  have  Contention  put  to  shame, 

And  all  the  hearts  of  all  things  comforted. 
There  are  no  laws  but  mine  on  land  and  sea, 

And  men  shall  crown  me  when  their  kings  are  dead. 


/' 


THE   WAKING   OF  THE   LARK. 


r\   BONNIE    bird,   that    in   the   brake,   exultant,   dost 
^^^   prepare  thee — 

As  poets  do  whose  thoughts  are  true,  for  wings  that  will 
upbear  thee — 

Oh  !  tell  me,  tell  me,  bonnie  bird, 
Canst  thou  not  pipe  of  hope  deferred? 
Or  canst  thou  sing  of  naught  but  Spring  among  the  golden 
meadows  ? 


ii. 

Methinks  a  bard  (and  thou  art  one)  should  suit  his  song 

to  sorrow, 
And  tell  of  pain,  as  well  as  gain,   that  waits  us  on  the 
morrow ; 

But  thou  art  not  a  prophet,  thou, 
If  naught  but  joy  can  touch  thee  now; 
If,  in  thy  heart,  thou  hast  no  vow  that  speaks  of  Nature's 
anguish. 

129 


130  THE  IV A  KING   OF   THE  LARK. 

in. 

Oh  !  I  have  held  my  sorrows  dear,  and  felt,  tho'  poor  and 

slighted, 
The  songs  we  love  are  those  we  hear  when  love  is  unre- 
quited. 

But  thou  art  still  the  slave  of  dawn, 
And  canst  not  sing  till  night  be  gone, 
Till  o'er  the  pathway  of  the  fawn  the  sunbeams  shine  and 
quiver. 

IV. 

Thou  art  the  minion  of  the  sun  that  rises  in  his  splendour, 
And  canst  not  spare  for  Dian  fair  the  songs  that  should 
attend  her. 

The  moon,  so  sad  and  silver-pale, 
Is  mistress  of  the  nightingale ; 
And   thou  wilt   sing  on   hill  and  dale   no   ditties  in  the 
darkness. 


For  Queen  and  King  thou  wilt  not  spare  one  note  of  thine 

outpouring; 
Thou  art  as  free  as  breezes  be  on  Nature's  velvet  flooring. 
The  daisy,  with  its  hood  undone, 
The  grass,  the  sunlight,  and  the  sun — 
These  are  the  joys,  thou  holy  one,  that  pay  thee  for  thy 
singing. 


THE  W A  KING   OF   THE  LARK.  131 


Oh,  hush !  Oh,  hush !  how  wild  a  gush  of  rapture  in  the 

distance, — 
A  roll  of  rhymes,  a  toll  of  chimes,  a  cry  for  love's  assist- 
ance; 

A  sound  that  wells  from  happy  throats, 
A  flood  of  song  where  beauty  floats, 
And  where  our  thoughts,  like  golden  boats,  do  seem   to 
cross  a  river. 


VII. 

This  is  the  advent  of  the  lark — the  priest  in  gray  apparel — 
Who  doth  prepare  to  trill  in  air  his  sinless  Summer  carol ; 
This  is  the  prelude  to  the  lay 
The  birds  did  sing  in  Caesar's  day, 
And  will   again,  for   aye   and   aye,    in   praise   of   God's 
creation. 


O  dainty  thing,  on  wonder's  wing,  by  life  and  love  elated, 
Oh  !  sing   aloud  from   cloud   to  cloud,  till  day  be  conse- 
crated ; 

Till  from  the  gateways  of  the  morn, 
The  sun,  with  all  his  light  unshorn, 
His  robes  of  darkness  round  him  torn,  doth  scale  the  lofty 
heavens  ! 


A   BALLAD   OF   KISSES. 


THERE  are  three  kisses  that  I  call  to  mind, 

And  I  will  sing  their  secrets  as  I  go. 
The  first,  a  kiss  too  courteous  to  be  kind, 

Was  such  a  kiss  as  monks  and  maidens  know; 

As  sharp  as  frost,  as  blameless  as  the  snow. 


The  second  kiss,  ah  God !  I  feel  it  yet, 

And  evermore  my  soul  will  loathe  the  same. 

The  toys  and  joys  of  fate  I  may  forget, 
But  not  the  touch  of  that  divided  shame : 
It  clove  my  lips;  it  burnt  me  like  a  flame. 

in. 

The  third,  the  final  kiss,  is  one  I  use 
Morning  and  noon  and  night ;  and  not  amiss. 

Sorrow  be  mine  if  such  I  do  refuse ! 

And  when  I  die,  be  love,  enrapt  in  bliss, 
Re-sanctified  in  Heaven  by  such  a  kiss. 


MARY  ARDEN. 


/~\  THOU  to  whom,  athwart  the  perish'd  days 
^^  And  parted  nights  long  sped,  we  lift  our  gaze, 
Behold !  I  greet  thee  with  a  modern  rhyme, 
Love-lit  and  reverent  as  befits  the  time, 
To  solemnize  the  feast-day  of  thy  son. 


And  who  was  he  who  flourish'd  in  the  smiles 
Of  thy  fair  face  ?     'Twas  Shakespeare  of  the  Isles, 
Shakespeare  of  England,  whom  the  world  has  known 
As  thine,  and  ours,  and  Glory's,  in  the  zone 
Of  all  the  seas  and  all  the  lands  of  earth. 


134  MARY  ARDEN. 


in. 

He  was  un-famous  when  he  came  to  thee, 
But  sound,  and  sweet,  and  good  for  eyes  to  see, 
And  born  at  Stratford,  on  St.  George's  Day, 
A  week  before  the  wondrous  month  of  May; 
And  God  therein  was  gracious  to  us  all. 


IV. 

He  lov'd  thee,  Lady!  and  he  lov'd  the  world; 
And,  like  a  flag,  his  fealty  was  unfurl'd; 
And  Kings  who  nourished  ere  thy  son  was  born 
Shall  live  through  him,  from  morn  to  furthest  morn, 
In  all  the  far-off  cycles  yet  to  come. 


He  gave  us  Falstaff,  and  a  hundred  quips, 
A  hundred  mottoes  from  immortal  lips; 
And,  year  by  year,  we  smile  to  keep  away 
The  generous  tears  that  mind  us  of  the  sway 
Of  his  great  singing,  and  the  pomp  thereof. 


MARY  ARDEN.  135 


VI. 

His  was  the  nectar  of  the  gods  of  Greece, 
The  lute  of  Orpheus,  and  the  Golden  Fleece 
Of  grand  endeavour ;  and  the  thunder-roll 
Of  words  majestic,  which,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Have  borne  the  tidings  of  our  English  tongue. 


VII. 

He  gave  us  Hamlet;  and  he  taught  us  more 
Than  schools  have  taught  us;  and  his  fairy-lore 
Was  fraught  with  science;  and  he  called  from  death 
Verona's  Lovers,  with  the  burning  breath 

Of  their  great  passion  that  has  filled  the  spheres. 


VIII. 

He  made  us  know  Cordelia,  and  the  man 
Who  murder'd  sleep,  and  baleful  Caliban; 
And,  one  by  one,  athwart  the  gloom  appear'd 
Maidens  and  men  and  myths  who  were  revered 
In  olden  days,  before  the  earth  was  sad. 


136  MARY  ARDEN. 


IX. 

Aye !  this  is  true.      It  was  ordained  so ; 
He  was  thine  own,  three  hundred  years  ago; 
But  ours  to-day;  and  ours  till  earth  be  red 
With  doom-day  splendour  for  the  quick  and  dead, 
And  days  and  nights  are  scattered  like  the  leaves. 


x. 

It  was  for  this  he  lived,  for  this  he  died ; 
To  raise  to  Heaven  the  face  that  never  lied, 
To  lean  to  earth  the  lips  that  should  become 
Fraught  with  conviction  when  the  mouth  was  dumb, 
And  all  the  firm,  fine  body  turn'd  to  clay. 


XI. 

He  lived  to  seal,  and  sanctify  the  lives 
Of  perish'd  maids,  and  uncreated  wives, 
And  gave  them  each  a  space  wherein  to  dwell ; 
And  for  his  mother's  sake  he  loved  them  well, 
And  made  them  types,  undying,  of  all  truth. 


MARY  ARDEN.  137 


XII. 

O  fair  and  fond  young  mother  of  the  boy 
Who  wrought  all  this — O  Mary! — in  thy  joy 
Did'st  thou  perceive,  when,  fitful  from  his  rest, 
He  turn'd  to  thee,  that  his  would  be  the  best 
Of  all  men's  chanting  since  the  world  began? 


XIII. 

Did'st  thou,  O  Mary !  with  the  eye  of  trust 
Perceive,  prophetic,  through  the  dark  and  dust 
Of  things  terrene,  the  glory  of  thy  son, 
And  all  the  pride  therein  that  should  be  won 
By  toilsome  men,  content  to  be  his  slaves  ? 


XIV. 

Did'st  thou,  good  mother !  in  the  tender  ways 
That  women  find  to  fill  the  fleeting  days, 
Behold  afar  the  Giant  who  should  rise 
With  foot  on  earth,  and  forehead  in  the  skies, 
To  write  his  name,  and  thine,  among  the  stars  ? 


138  MARY  ARDEN. 


xv. 

I  love  to  think  it;  and,  in  dreams  at  night 
I  see  thee  stand,  erect,  and  all  in  white, 
With  hands  out-yearning  to  that  mighty  form, 
As  if  to  draw  him  back  from  out  the  storm, — 
A  child  again,  and  thine  to  nurse  withal. 


XVI. 

I  see  thee,  pale  and  pure,  with  flowing  hair, 
And  big,  bright  eyes,  far-searching  in  the  air 
For  thy  sweet  babe,  and,  in  a  trice  of  time, 
I  see  the  child  advance  to  thee,  and  climb, 
And  call  thee  "  Mother!  "  in  ecstatic  tones. 


XVII. 

Yet,  if  my  thought  be  vain — if,  by  a  touch 
Of  this  weak  hand,  I  vex  thee  overmuch — 
Forbear  the  blame,  sweet  Spirit !  and  endow 
My  heart  with  fervour  while  to  thee  I  bow 
Athwart  the  threshold  of  my  fading  dream. 


MARY  ARDEN.  139 


xvm. 

For,  though  so  seeming-bold  in  this  my  song, 
I  turn  to  thee  with  reverence,  in  the  throng 
Of  words  and  thoughts,  as  shepherds  scann'd,  afar, 
The  famed  effulgence  of  that  eastern  star 

Which  usher'd  in  the  Crown'd  One  of  the  heavens. 


XIX. 

In  dreams  of  rapture  I  have  seen  thee  pass 
Along  the  banks  of  Avon,  by  the  grass, 
As  fair  as  that  fair  Juliet  whom  thy  son 
Endow'd  with  life,  but  with  the  look  of  one 

Who  knows  the  nearest  way  to  some  new  grave. 


xx. 

And  often,  too,  I've  seen  thee  in  the  flush 
Of  thy  full  beauty,  while  the  mother's  "  Hush  !  " 
Hung  on  thy  lip,  and  all  thy  tangled  hair 
Re-clothed  a  bosom  that  in  part  was  bare 
Because  a  tiny  hand  had  toy'd  therewith ! 


HO  MARY  ARDEN. 


XXI. 

Oh !  by  the  June-tide  splendour  of  thy  face 
When,  eight  weeks  old,  the  child  in  thine  embrace 
Did  leap  and  laugh,  O  Mary!  by  the  same, 
I  bow  to  thee,  subservient  to  thy  fame, 

And  call  thee  England's  Pride  for  evermore ! 


SACHAL. 


A  WAIF  OF  BATTLE. 


L° 


'  O !  at  my  feet, 

A  something  pale  of  hue; 
A  something  sad  to  view; 
Dead  or  alive  I  dare  not  call  it  sweet. 


Not  white  as  snow; 
Not  transient  as  a  tear ! 
A  warrior  left  it  here, 
It  was  his  passport  ere  he  met  the  foe. 


in. 

Here  is  a  name, 
A  word  upon  the  book ; 
If  ye  but  kneel  to  look, 
Ye'll  find  the  letters  "  Sachal  "  on  the  same. 


142  SACHAL. 


IV. 


His  Land  to  cherish, 
He  died  at  twenty-seven. 
There  are  no  wars  in  Heaven, 
But  when  he  fought  he  gain'd  the  right  to  perish. 


Where  was  he  born  ? 
In  France,  at  Puy  le  Dome. 
A  wanderer  from  his  home, 
He  found  a  Fatherland  beyond  the  morn. 


VI. 

'Twas  France's  plan; 
The  cause  he  did  not  ask. 
His  life  was  but  a  mask, 
And  he  upraised  it,  martyr'd  at  Sedan. 


VII. 

And  prone  in  death, 
Beyond  the  name  of  France, 
Beyond  his  hero-glance, — 
He  thought,  belike,  of  her  who  gave  him  breath. 


SACHAL  14: 


O  thou  dead  son ! 
O  Sachal !  far  away, 
But  not  forgot  to-day, 
I  had  a  mother,  too,  but  now  have  none. 


Our  hopes  are  brave. 
Our  faiths  are  braver  still. 
The  soul  shall  no  man  kill; 
For  God  will  find  us,  each  one  in  his  grave. 


x. 

A  land  more  vast 
Than  Europe's  kingdoms  are, — 
A  brighter,  nobler  star 
Than  victory's  fearful  light, — is  thine  at  last. 


XI. 

And  should'st  thou  meet 
Yon  Germans  up  on  high, — 
Thy  foes  when  death  was  nigh, — 
Nor  thou  nor  they  will  sound  the  soul's  retreat. 


144  SACHAL 


xn. 


For  all  are  just, 
Yea,  all  are  patriots  there, 
And  thou,  O  Fils  de  Pierre ! 
Hast  found  thy  marshal's  baton  in  the  dust. 


Oh,  farewell,  friend; 
My  friend,  albeit  unknown, 
Save  in  thy  death  alone, 
Oh,  fare  thee  well  till  sin  and  sorrow  end. 


XIV. 

In  realms  of  joy 
We'll  meet;  aye,  every  one: 
Mother  and  sire  and  son, — 
And  my  poor  mother,  too,  will  claim  her  boy. 


Death  leads  to  God. 
Death  is  the  Sword  of  Fate, 
Death  is  the  Golden  Gate 
That  opens  up  to  glory,  through  the  sod. 


SACHAL. 


145 


And  thou  that  road, 
O  Sachal!  thou  hast  found; 
A  king  is  not  so  crown'd 
As  thou  art,  soldier !  in  thy  blest  abode. 


XVII. 


Deathless  in  death, 
Exalted,  not  destroy'd, 
Thou  art  in  Heaven  employ'd 
To  swell  the  songs  of  angels  with  thy  breath. 


.  ...<*bKS8L 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  MAY. 


f\  STARS  that  fade  in  amber  skies 
^^^     Because  ye  dread  the  light  of  day, 
O  moon  so  lonely  and  so  wise, 

Look  down,  and  love  my  Love  alway; 

Salute  the  Lady  of  the  May. 


ii. 

O  lark  that  soarest  in  the  light 
To  hail  thy  lord  in  his  array, 

Look  down;  be  just;  and  sing  aright. 
A  lover  claims  thy  song  to-day 
To  greet  his  Lady  of  the  May. 
146 


THE  LADY  OF    THE  MAY.  H7 


in. 

"  O  lady!  lady!"  sings  the  lark, 
"  Thy  lover's  hest  I  do  obey; 

For  thou  art  splendid  after  dark, 

And  where  thou  smilest,  there  is  day; 
And  thou'rt  the  Lady  of  the  May. 


IV. 

"  The  nightingale's  a  friend  of  mine, 
And  yesternight  she  flew  my  way. 

'  Awake, '  she  cried,  '  at  morning  shine 
And  sing  for  me  thy  blythest  lay 
To  greet  the  Lady  of  the  May.' 


v. 

"  '  And  tell  her,  tell  her,  gentle  one, 
While  thou  attun'st  thy  morning  lay, 

That  I  will  sing  at  set  of  sun 
Another  song  for  thy  sweet  fay, 
Because  she's  Lady  of  the  May.' 


148  THE  LADY  OF  THE  MAY. 


VI. 

"  And  lo  I  come,"  the  lark  in  air, 
Self-pois'd  and  free,  did  seem  to  say, 

"  I  come  to  greet  thy  lady's  hair 
And  call  its  beams  the  light  of  day 
Which  decks  thy  Lady  of  the  May." 


Oh,  thank  thee,  bird  that  singest  well ! 
For  all  thou  say'st  and  still  would'st  say 

And  for  the  thoughts  which  Philomel 
Intends  to  trill,  in  roundelay, 
To  greet  my  Lady  of  the  May. 


VIII. 

We  two  (my  Love  and  I)  are  one, 
And  so  shall  be,  for  aye  and  aye. 

Go,  take  my  homage  to  the  sun, 
And  bid  him  shine  his  best  to-day, 
To  crown  my  Lady  of  the  May ! 


AN  ODE  TO  ENGLISHMEN. 


[  WHO  have  sung  of  love  and  lady  bright 

A   And  mirth  and  music  and  the  world's  delight, 

Behold !  to-day,  I  sound  a  sterner  note 
To  move  the  minds  of  foemen  when  they  fight. 


Have  I  not  said:  There  is  no  sweeter  thing, 
And  none  diviner  than  the  wedding-ring  ? 

And,  all  intent  to  make  my  meaning  plain, 
Have  I  not  kiss'd  the  lips  of  Love,  the  King  ? 


in. 

Yea,  this  is  so.     But  lo !  to-day  there  comes 
The  far-off  sound  of  trumpets  and  of  drums; 

And  I  must  parley  with  the  men  of  toil 
Who  rise  in  ranks  exultant  from  the  slums. 


150  AN  ODE   TO  ENGLISHMEN. 


IV. 

I  must  arraign  each  man;  yea,  all  the  host; 
And  each  true  soul  shall  learn  the  least  and  most 
Of  all  his  wrongs, — if  wrongs  indeed  they  be; 
And  he  shall  face  the  flaof  that  guards  the  coast. 


v. 

He  shall  salute  it!     He  shall  find  therein 
Salve  for  his  wounds  and  solace  for  his  sin. 

Brother  and  guide  is  he  who  loves  his  Land: 
But  he  is  kinless  who  denies  his  kin. 


VI. 

Has  he  a  heart  to  feel,  a  knee  to  bend, 
And  will  not  trust  his  country  to  the  end  ? 

If  this  be  so,  God  help  him  to  a  tear! 
He  shall  be  foiled,  as  foeman  and  as  friend. 


VII. 

Bears  he  a  sword  ?     I  care  not.      He  is  base; 
Unfit  to  wield  it,  and  of  meaner  place 

Than  tongue  can  tell  of,  in  the  Senate  House; 
And  he  shall  find  no  balm  for  his  disgrace. 


AN  ODE  TO  ENGLISHMEN.  151 


VIII. 


O  men !     I  charge  ye,  in  the  name  of  Him 
Who  rules  the  world,  and  guards  the  cherubim, 
I  charge  ye,  pause,  ere  from  the  lighted  track 
Ye  turn,  distraught,  to  pathways  that  are  dim. 


IX. 


Who  gave  your  fathers,  and  your  fathers'  sons 
The  rights  ye  claim,  amid  the  roar  of  guns, 

And  'mid  the  flash  thereof  from  sea  to  sea? 
Your  country !  through  her  lov'd,  her  chosen  ones. 


Oh,  ye  are  dastards  if  ye  lift  a  hand, 
Dastards  and  fools,  if,  loveless  in  a  band, 

Ye  touch  in  wrath  the  bulwark  of  the  realm. 
Ye  shall  be  baulk'd,  and  Chivalry  shall  stand. 


I  have  a  sword,  I  also,  and  I  swear 

By  my  heart's  faith,  and  by  my  Lady's  hair, 

That  I  will  strike  the  first  of  ye  that  moves, 
If  by  a  sign  ye  wrong  the  flag  ye  bear. 


152  AN  ODE    TO  ENGLISHMEN. 


XII. 


In  Freedom's  name,  in  her's  to  whom  we  bow, 
In  her  great  name,  I  charge  ye,  palter  now 
With  no  traducer  of  your  country's  cause. 
Accurst  of  God  is  he  who  breaks  his  vow ! 


ZULALIE. 


F  AM  the  sprite 

That  reigns  at  night, 

My  body  is  fair  for  man's  delight. 
I  leap  and  laugh 
As  the  wine  I  quaff, 

And  I  am  the  queen  of  Astrofelle. 


I  curse  and  swear 

In  my  demon-lair; 
I  shake  wild  sunbeams  out  of  my  hair. 

I  madden  the  old, 

I  gladden  the  bold, 
And  I  am  the  queen  of  Astrofelle. 


1 54  ZULALIE. 


in. 

Of  churchyard  stone 

I  have  made  my  throne; 
My  locks  are  looped  with  a  dead  man's  bone. 

Mine  eyes  are  red 

With  the  tears  I  shed, 
And  I  am  the  queen  of  Astrofelle. 


IV. 

In  cities  and  camps 

I  have  lighted  my  lamps, 
My  kisses  are  caught  by  kings  and  tramps. 

With  rant  and  revel 

My  hair  I  dishevel, 
And  I  am  the  queen  of  Astrofelle. 


My  kisses  are  stains, 
Mine  arms  are  chains, 

My  forehead  is  fair  and  false  like  Cain's. 
My  gain  is  loss, 
Mine  honour  is  dross, — 

And  I  am  the  queen  of  Astrofelle ! 


BEETHOVEN  AT  THE  PIANO. 


QEE    where   Beethoven   sits    alone — a    dream    of    days 
^      elysian, 

A  crownless  king  upon  a  throne,  reflected  in  a  vision — 
The  man  who  strikes  the  potent  chords  which  make  the 

world,  in  wonder, 
Acknowledge  him,  though  poor  and  dim,  the  mouthpiece 

of  the  thunder. 


ii. 

He  feels  the  music  of  the  skies  the  while  his  heart  is  break- 
in  v 

He  sings  the  songs  of  Paradise,  where  love  has  no  forsak- 
ing. 

And,  though  so  deaf  he  cannot  hear  the  tempest  as  a 
token, 

He  makes  the  music  of  his  mind  the  grandest  ever 
spoken. 


156  BEETHOl/EN  AT   THE  PIANO. 

in. 

He  doth  not  hear  the  whispered  word  of  love  in  his  seclu- 
sion, 

Or  voice  of  friend,  or  song  of  bird,  in  Nature's  sad  confu- 
sion; 

But  he  hath  made,  for  Love's  sweet  sake,  so  wild  a  decla- 
mation 

That  all  true  lovers  of  the  earth  have  claim'd  him  of  their 
nation. 


He  had  a  Juliet  in  his  youth,  as  Romeo  had  before  him, 
And,   Romeo-like,  he  sought  to   die  that  she  might  then 

adore  him ; 
But  she  was  weak,  as  women  are  whose  faith  has  not  been 

proven, 
And  would  not  change  her  name  for  his — Guiciardi  for 

Beethoven. 

v. 

O  minstrel,  whom  a  maiden  spurned,  but  whom  a  world 

has  treasured ! 
O    sovereign    of    a    greater    realm    than    man    has    ever 

measured ! 
Thou  hast  not  lost  the  lips  of  love,  but  thou  hast  gain'd,  in 

glory, 
The  love  of  all  who  know  the  thrall  of   thine  immortal 

story. 


BEET  HOIS  EN  AT   THE  PIANO.  157 

VI. 

Thou  art  the  bard  whom  none  discard,  but  whom  all  men 

discover 
To  be  a  god,  as  Orpheus  was,  albeit  a  lonely  lover ; 
A  king  to  call  the  stones  to  life  beside  the  roaring  ocean, 
And    bid  the  stars  discourse  to    trees  in  words  of  man's 

emotion. 

VII. 

A  king  of  joys,  a  prince  of  tears,  an  emperor  of  the  sea- 
sons, 

Whose  songs  are  like  the  sway  of  years  in  Love's  immortal 
reasons ; 

A  bard  who  knows  no  life  but  this:  to  love  and  be 
rejected, 

And  reproduce  in  earthly  strains  the  prayers  of  the 
elected. 

VIII. 

O    poet     heart!     O    seraph    soul!     by    men    and    maids 

adored ! 
O  Titan   with    the   lion's  mane,    and   with    the    splendid 

forehead ! 
We  men  who  bow  to  thee  in  grief  must  tremble  in  our 

gladness, 
To  know  what  tears  were  turned  to  pearls  to  crown  thee 

in  thy  sadness. 


158  BEET  HOI/ EN  AT   THE  PIANO. 

IX. 

An  Angel  by  direct  descent,  a  German  by  alliance, 

Thou  didst  intone  the  wonder-chords  which  made  Despair 

a  science. 
Yea,  thou  didst  strike  so  grand  a  note  that,  in  its  large 

vibration, 
It  seemed  the  roaring  of  the  sea  in  nature's  jubilation. 

x. 

O    Sire    of    Song!      Sonata-King!      Sublime    and   loving 

master; 
The  sweetest  soul  that  ever  struck  an  octave  in  disaster; 
In  thee  were  found  the  fires  of  thought — the  splendours  of 

endeavour, — 
And  thou  shalt  sway  the  minds  of  men  for  ever  and  for 

ever ! 


A   RHAPSODY  OF   DEATH. 


T 


'HAT  phantoms  fair,  with  radiant  hair, 
May  seek  at  midnight  hour 
The  sons  of  men,  belov'd  again, 
And  give  them  holy  power; 
That  souls  survive  the  mortal  hive,  and  sinless  come  and 

go, 
Is  true  as  death,  the  prophet  saith;  and   God  will  have 
it  so. 


ii. 

For  who  be  ye  who  doubt  and  prate  ? 

O  sages !  make  it  clear 
If  ye  be  more  than  men  of  fate, 
Or  less  than  men  of  cheer; 
If  ye  be  less  than  bird  or  beast  ?    O  brothers !    make  it 

plain 
If  ye  be  bankrupts  at  a  feast,  or  sharers  in  a  gain. 


i6o  A    RHAPSODY   OF  DEATH. 


You  say  there  is  no  future  state; 

The  clue  ye  fail  to  find. 
The  flesh  is  here,  and  bones  appear 
When  graves  are  undermined. 
But  of  the  soul,    in   time    of   dole,   what   answer   can  ye 

frame — 
Ye   who  have   heard   no  spirit-word  to  guide   ye  to  the 
same. 

IV. 

Ah  !  facts  are  good,  and  reason's  good, 

But  fancy's  stronger  far; 
In  weal  or  woe  we  only  know 
We  know  not  what  we  are. 
The    sunset    seems  a  raging   fire,    the    clouds   roll  back, 

afraid ; 
The  rainbow  seems  a  broken  lyre  on  which  the  storm  has 
play'd. 

v. 
But  these,  ye  urge,  are  outward  signs. 

Such  signs  are  not  for  you. 
The  sight's  deceiv'd  and  truth  bereav'd 
By  diamonds  of  the  dew. 
The    sage's    mind    is    more    refined,    his    rapture    more 

complete ; 
He    almost   knows   the   little    rose    that    blossoms  at    his 
feet! 


A   RHAPSODY  OF  DEATH.  161 

VI. 

The  sage  can  kill  a  thousand  things, 

And  tell  the  names  of  all; 
And  wrench  away  the  wearied  wings 
Of  eagles  when  they  fall ; 
And  calmly  trace    the    lily's  grace,  or  fell   the  strongest 

tree, 
And  almost  feel,  if  not  reveal,  the  secrets  of  the  sea. 

VII. 

But  can  he  set,  by  day  or  night, 
The  clock-work  of  the  skies  ? 
Or  bring  the  dead  man  back  to  sight 
With  soul-invested  eyes  ? 
Can  he  describe  the  ways  of  life,  the  wondrous  ways  of 

death, 
And  whence  it  came,  and  what  the  flame  that  feeds  the 
vital  breath  ? 

VIII. 

If  he  could  do  such  deeds  as  these, 
He  might,  though  poor  and  low, 
Explain  the  cause  of  Nature's  laws, 
Which  none  shall  ever  know ; 
He    might    recall    the    vanish'd    years   by   lifting   of   his 

hand, 
And  bid  the  wind  go  north  or  south  to  prove  what  he  has 
plann'd. 


1 62  A   RHAPSODY  OF  DEATH. 

IX. 

But  God  is  just.     He  burdens  not 

The  shoulders  of  the  sage; 
He  pities  him  whose  sight  is  dim ; 
He  turns  no  second  page. 
There  are  two  pages  to  the  book.     We  men  have  read  the 

one; 
The  other  needs  a  spirit-look,  in  lands  beyond  the  sun. 


The  other  needs  a  poet's  eye, 

Like  that  of  Milton  blind; 
The  light  of  Faith  which  cannot  die, 
Though  doubts  perplex  the  mind; 
The  eyesight  of  a  little  child;  a  martyr's  eye  in  dole, 
Which  sees  afar  the  golden  star  that  shines  upon  the  soul ! 


A  PRAYER  FOR  LIGHT. 


PvH,  give  me  light,  to-day,  or  let  me  die, — 
^^     The  light  of  love,  the  love-light  of  the  sky, 
That  I,  at  length,  may  see  my  darling's  face 

One  minute's  space. 


Have  I  not  wept  to  know  myself  so  weak 
That  I  can  feel,  not  see,  the  dimpled  cheek, 
The  lips,  the  eyes,  the  sunbeams  that  enfold 

Her  locks  of  gold  ? 


in. 

Have  I  not  sworn  that  I  will  not  be  wed, 
But  mate  my  soul  with  hers  on  my  death-bed  ? 
The  soul  can  see, — for  souls  are  seraphim, — 

When  eyes  are  dim. 


1 64  A   PRAYER   FOR   LIGHT. 


IV. 

Oh,  hush !  she  comes.     I  know  her.     She  is  nigh. 
She  brings  me  death,  true  heart,  and  I  will  die. 
She  brings  me  love,  for  love  and  life  are  one 

Beyond  the  sun. 


This  is  the  measure,  this,  of  all  my  joys: 
Life  is  a  curse  and  Death's  a  counterpoise. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  O  sweet  one,  let  me  know 

Which  path  I  go. 


VI. 

I  cannot  die  if  thou  be  not  a-near, 

To  lead  me  on  to  Life's  appointed  sphere. 

O  spirit-face,  O  angel,  with  thy  breath 

Kiss  me  to  death  ! 


MIRAGE. 


T 


*IS  a  legend  of  a  lover, 
'Tis  a  ballad  to  be  sung, 
In  the  gloaming, — under  cover, — 
By  a  minstrel  who  is  young; 
By  a  singer  who  has  passion,  and  who  sways  us  with  his 
tongue. 


ii. 

I,  who  know  it,  think  upon  it, 
Not  unhappy,  tho'  in  tears, 
And  I  gather  in  a  sonnet 
All  the  glory  of  the  years ; 
And    I    kiss    and   clasp    a   shadow   when    the    substance 
disappears. 

165 


1 66  MIRAGE. 


in. 

Ah !  I  see  her  as  she  faced  me, 

In  the  sinless  summer  days, 
When  her  little  hands  embraced  me, 
And  I  saddened  at  her  gaze, 
Thinking,  Sweet  One  !  will  she  love  me  when  we  walk  in 
other  ways  ? 


IV. 

Will  she  cling  to  me  as  kindly 

When  the  childish  faith  is  lost  ? 
Will  she  pray  for  me  as  blindly, 
Or  but  weigh  the  wish  and  cost, 
Looking  back  on  our  lost  Eden  from  the  girlhood  she  has 
cross'd  ? 


v. 

Oh  !  I  swear  by  all  I  honour, 

By  the  graves  that  I  endow, 
By  the  grace  I  set  upon  her, 

That  I  meant  the  early  vow, — 
Meant  it  much  as  men  and  women  mean  the  same  thing 
spoken  now. 


MIRAGE.  167 


VI. 

But  her  maiden  troth  is  broken, 

And  her  mind  is  ill  at  ease, 
And  she  sends  me  back  no  token 
From  her  home  beyond  the  seas ; 
And  I  know,  though  nought  is  spoken,  that  she  thanks  me 
on  her  knees. 


Yes,  for  pardon  freely  granted; 

For  she  wrong'd  me,  understand. 
And  my  life  is  disenchanted, 
As  I  wander  through  the  land 
With   the  sorrows  of  dark  morrows  that  await  me  in  a 
band. 


Hers  was  sweetest  of  sweet  faces, 
Hers  the  tenderest  eyes  of  all ! 
In  her  hair  she  had  the  traces 
Of  a  heavenly  coronal, 
Bringing  sunshine  to  sad  places  where  the  sunlight  could 
not  fall. 


1 68  MIRAGE. 


IX. 

She  was  fairer  than  a  vision ; 

Like  a  vision,  too,  has  flown. 
I  who  flushed  at  her  decision, 
Lo !  I  languish  here  alone ; 
And  I   tremble  when  I  tell  you  that  my  anger  was  mine 
own. 


x. 

Not  for  her,  sweet  sainted  creature.! 

Could  I  curse  her  to  her  face  ? 
Could  I  look  on  form  and  feature, 
And  deny  the  inner  grace  ? 
Like  a  little  wax  Madonna  she  was  holy  in  the  place. 


XI. 

And  I  told  her,  in  mad  fashion, 

That  I  loved  her, — would  incline 
All  my  life  to  this  one  passion, 
And  would  kneel  as  at  a  shrine; 
And  would  love  her  late   and  early,  and  would  teach  her 
to  be  mine. 


MIRAGE.  169 


XII. 

Now  in  dreams  alone  I  meet  her 
With  my  lowly  human  praise : 
She  is  sweeter  and  completer, 
And  she  smiles  on  me  always; 
But  I  dare  not  rise  and  greet  her  as  I  did  in  early  days. 


A   MOTHER'S  NAME. 


LOVE  the  sound !     The  sweetest  under  Heaven, 
That  name  of  mother, — and  the  proudest,  too. 
As  babes  we  breathe  it,  and  with  seven  times  seven 

Of  youthful  prayers,  and  blessings  that  accrue, 
We  still  repeat  the  word,  with  tender  steven. 

Dearest  of  friends !  dear  mother !  what  we  do 
This  side  the  grave,  in  purity  of  aim. 
Is  glorified  at  last  by  thy  good  name. 


But  how  forlorn  the  word,  how  full  of  woe, 
When  she  who  bears  it  lies  beneath  the  clod. 

In  vain  the  orphan  child  would  call  her  so, — 
She  comes  not  back :  her  place  is  up  with  God. 

The  wintry  winds  are  wailing  o'er  the  snow; 

The  flowers  are  dead  that  once  did  grace  the  sod. 

Ah,  lose  not  heart!     Some  flowers  may  fade  in  gloom,. 

But  Hope's  a  plant  grows  brightest  on  the  tomb! 


A   SONG   OF   SERVITUDE. 


'"PHIS  is  a  song  of  serfs  that  I  have  made, 

A  song  of  sympathy  for  grief  and  joy: — 
The  old,  the  young,  the  lov'd  and  the  betrayed, 
All,  all  must  serve,  for  all  must  be  obeyed. 


There  are  no  tyrants  but  the  serving  ones, 

There  are  no  servants  but  the  ruling  men. 
The  Captain  conquers  with  his  army's  guns, 
But  he  himself  is  conquered  by  his  sons. 


in. 

What  is  a  parent  but  a  daughter's  slave, 

A  son's  retainer  when  the  lad  is  ill  ? 
The  great  Creator  loves  the  good  and  brave, 
And  makes  a  flower  the  spokesman  of  a  grave. 


172  A   SONG   OF  SERVITUDE. 


IV. 


The  son  is  servant  in  his  father's  halls, 

The  daughter  is  her  mother's  maid-of-work. 
The  welkin  wonders  when  the  ocean  calls, 
And  earth  accepts  the  raindrop  when  it  falls. 


There  are  no  "tips  "  in  life,  there  are  no  "  downs," 

For  "high"  and  "low"  are  words  of  like  degree; 
He  who  is  light  of  heart  when  Fortune  frowns, 
He  is  a  kine  thousfh  nameless  in  the  towns. 


VI. 

None  is  so  lofty  as  the  sage  who  prays, 

None  so  unhigh  as  he  who  will  not  kneel. 
The  breeze  is  servant  to  the  summer  days, 
And  he  is  bowed-to  most  who  most  obeys. 


VII. 

These  are  the  maxims  that  I  take  to  heart, 

Do  thou  accept  them,  reader,  for  thine  own; 
Love  well  thy  work ;  be  truthful  in  the  mart, 
And  foes  will  praise  thee  when  thy  friends  depart. 


A   SONG   OF  SERVITUDE.  173 


VIII. 

None  shall  upbraid  thee  then  for  thine  estate, 

Or  show  thee  meaner  than  thou  art  in  truth. 
Make  friends  with  death;  and  God  who  is  so  great, 
He  will  assist  thee  to  a  nobler  fate. 


None  are  unfit  to  serve  upon  their  knees 

The  saints  of  prayer,  unseen  but  quick  to  hear. 
The  flowers  are  servants  to  the  pilgrim  bees, 
And  wintry  winds  are  tyrants  of  the  trees. 


All  things  are  good;  all  things  incur  a  debt, 

And  all  must  pay  the  same,  or  soon  or  late 
The  sun  will  rise  betimes,  but  he  must  set ; 
And  Man  must  seek  the  laws  he  would  forget. 


XI. 

There  are  no  mockeries  in  the  universe, 

No  false  accounts,  no  errors  that  will  thrive. 
The  work  we  do,  the  good  things  we  rehearse, 
Are  boons  of  Nature  basely  named  a  curse. 


174  A   SONG   OF  SERVITUDE. 


"  Give  us  our  daily  bread!  "  the  children  pray, 

And  mothers  plead  for  them  while  thus  they  speak. 
But  "  Give  us  work,  O  God! "  we  men  should  say, 
That  we  may  gain  our  bread  from  day  to  day. 


XIII. 


'Tis  not  alone  the  crown  that  makes  the  king; 

'Tis  service  done,  'tis  duty  to  his  kind. 
The  lark  that  soars  so  high  is  quick  to  sing, 
And  proud  to  yield  allegiance  to  the  spring. 


XIV. 

And  we  who  serve  ourselves,  whate'er  befall 
Athwart  the  dangers  of  the  day's  behests, 
Oh,  let's  not  shirk,  at  joy  or  sorrow's  call, 
The  service  due  to  God  who  serves  us  all ! 


SYLVIA   IN   THE   WEST. 


\\  7 HAT  shall  be  done  ?     I  cannot  pray; 

And  none  shall  know  the  pangs  I  feel. 
If  prayers  could  alter  night  to  day, — 
Or  black  to  white, — I  might  appeal; 
I  might  attempt  to  sway  thy  heart, 
And  prove  it  mine,  or  claim  a  part. 


ii. 

I  might  attempt  to  urge  on  thee 

At  least  the  chance  of  some  redress : 

An  hour's  revoke, — a  moment's  plea,- 
A  smile  to  make  my  sorrows  less. 

I  might  indeed  be  taught  in  time 

To  blush  for  hope,  as  for  a  crime ! 


i/6  SYLVIA   IN   THE   W EST. 


in. 

But  thou  art  stone,  though  soft  and  fleet, — 

A  statue,  not  a  maiden,  thou ! 
A  man  may  hear  thy  bosom  beat 

When  thou  hast  sworn  some  idle  vow. 
But  not  for  love,  no!  not  for  this; 
For  thou  wilt  sell  thy  bridal  kiss. 


I  mean,  thy  friends  will  sell  thy  love, 
As  loves  are  sold  in  England,  here. 

A  man  will  buy  my  golden  dove, — 
I  doubt  he'll  find  his  bargain  dear ! 

He'll  lose  the  wine;  he'll  buy  the  bowl, 

The  life,  the  limbs,  but  not  the  soul. 


v. 

So,  take  thy  mate  and  all  his  wealth, 
And  all  the  joys  that  wait  on  fame. 

Thou'lt  weep, — poor  martyr'd  one  ! — by  stealth, 
And  think  of  me,  and  shriek  my  name; 

Yes,  in  his  arms !     And  wake,  too  late, 

To  coax  and  kiss  the  man  you  hate. 


SYLISIA   IN    THE   WEST.  177 


VI. 

By  slow  degrees,  from  year  to  year, 

From  week  to  week,  from  night  to  night, 

He  will  be  taught  how  dark  and  drear 
Is  barter'd  love, — how  sad  to  sight 

A  perjured  face !     He  will  be  driven 

To  compass  Hell, — and  dream  of  Heaven. 


VII. 

But  stand  at  God's  high  altar  there, 
With  saints  around  thee  tall  and  sweet, 

I'll  match  thy  pride  with  my  despair, 
And  drag  thee  down  from  glory's  seat. 

Yea,  thou  shalt  kneel !     Thy  head  shall  bow 

As  mine  is  bent  in  anguish  now. 


What !  for  thy  sake  have  I  forsworn 
My  just  ambition, — all  my  joy. 

And  all  my  hope  from  morn  to  morn, 
That  seem'd  a  prize  without  alloy  ? 

Have  I  done  this  ?     I  have;  and  see! 

I  weep  wild  tears  for  thine  and  thee. 


178  SYLVIA   IN    THE   W EST. 


IX. 

But  I  can  school  my  soul  to  strength, 
And  weep  and  wail  as  children  do; 

Be  hard  as  stone,  yet  melt  at  length, 
And  curb  my  pride  as  thou  can'st,  too ! 

But  I  have  faith,  and  thou  hast  none ; 

And  I  have  joy,  but  thine  is  done. 


No  marriage-bells  ?     No  songs,  you  say  ? 

No  flowers  to  grace  our  bridal  morn  ? 
No  wine  ?     No  kiss  ?     No  wedding-day  ? 

I  care  not !     Oaths  are  all  forsworn ; 
And,  when  I  clasp'd  thy  hand  so  white, 
I  meant  to  curse  thee,  girl,  to-night. 


XI. 

And  so  I  shall, — Oh !  doubt  not  that. 

At  stroke  of  twelve  I'll  curse  thee  twice. 
When  screams  the  owl,  when  swoops  the  bat, 

When  ghosts  are  out  I'll  curse  thee  thrice. 
And  thou  shalt  hear ! — Aye,  by  my  troth, 
One  sons:  will  suit  the  souls  of  both. 


SYLJ/IA   IN    THE   WEST.  179 


XII. 

I  curse  thy  face ;   I  curse  thy  hair ; 

I  curse  thy  lips  that  smile  so  well, 
Thy  life,  thy  love,  and  my  despair, 

My  loveless  couch,  thy  wedding-bell ; 
My  soul  and  thine ! — Ah,  see !  though  black, 
I  take  one  half  my  curses  back. 


XIII. 

For  thou  and  I  were  form'd  for  hate, 
For  love,  for  scorn ;  no  matter  what. 

I  am  thy  Fere  and  thou  my  Fate, 
And  fire  and  flood  shall  harm  us  not. 

Thou  shalt  be  kill'd  and  hid  from  ken, 

And  fiends  will  sing  thy  requiem  then. 


XIV. 

Yet  think  not  Death  will  serve  thy  stead; 

I'll  find  thy  grave,  though  wall'd  in  stone. 
I'll  move  thy  mould  to  make  my  bed, 

And  lie  with  thee  long  hours  alone : — 
Long,  lifeless  hours !     Ah  God,  how  free, 
How  pale,  how  cold,  thy  lips  will  be ! 


i So  SYLVIA   IN   THE   IV EST. 


But  graves  are  cells  of  truth  and  love, 
And  men  may  talk  no  treason  there. 

A  corpse  will  wear  no  wedding-glove, 
A  ghost  will  make  no  sign  in  air. 

But  ghosts  can  pray?     Well,  let  them  kneel; 

They,  too,  must  loathe  the  love  they  feel. 


XVI. 

Ah  me !  to  sleep  and  yet  to  wake, 
To  live  so  long,  and  yet  to  die ; 

To  sing  sad  songs  for  Sylvia's  sake, 
And  yet  no  peace  to  gain  thereby ! 

What  have  I  done  ?     What  left  unsaid  ? 

Nay,  I  will  count  my  tears  instead. 


XVII. 

Here  is  a  word  of  wild  design. 

Here  is  a  threat;  'twas  meant  to  warn. 
Here  is  a  fierce  and  freezing  line, 

As  hot  as  hate,  as  cold  as  scorn. 
Ah,  friend !  forgive ;  forbear  my  rhymes, 
But  pray  for  me,  sweet  soul !  sometimes. 


SYLVIA   IN   THE   WEST.  181 


XVIII. 

Had  I  a  curse  to  spare  to-day, 

(Which  I  have  not)  I'd  use  it  now. 

I'd  curse  my  hair  to  turn  it  gray, 
I'd  teach  my  back  to  bend  and  bow; 

I'd  make  myself  so  old  and  thin 

That  I  should  seem  too  sad  to  sin. 


XIX. 

And  then  we'd  meet,  we  two,  at  night; 

And  I  should  know  what  saints  have  known. 
Thou  would'st  not  tremble,  dear,  for  fright, 

Or  shriek  to  meet  me  there  alone. 
I  should  not  then  be  spurned  for  this, 
Or  want  a  smile,  or  need  a  kiss. 


xx. 

I  should  not  then  be  fierce  as  fire, 
Or  mad  as  sin,  or  sharp  as  knife; 

My  heart  would  throb  with  no  desire, 
For  care  would  cool  the  flush  of  life; 

And  I  should  love  thee,  spotless  one, 

As  pilgrims  love  some  holy  nun. 


1 82  SYLVIA   IN   THE   WEST. 


XXI. 

Ah,  queen-like  creature!  smile  on  me; 

Be  kind,  be  good;   I  lov'd  thee  much. 
I  thank  thee,  see !  on  bended  knee. 

I  seek  salvation  in  thy  touch. 
And  when  I  sleep  I  watch  thee  come, 
And  both  are  wild,  and  one  is  dumb. 


I  draw  thee,  ghost-like,  to  my  heart; 

I  kiss  thy  lips  and  call  thee  mine. 
Of  thy  sweet  soul  I  form  a  part, 

And  my  poor  soul  is  part  of  thine. 
Ah,  kill  me,  kiss  me,  curse  me,  Thou! 
But  let  me  be  thy  servant  now. 


XXIII. 

What !  did  I  curse  thy  golden  hair  ? 

Well,  then,  the  sun  will  set  at  noon; 
The  face  that  keeps  the  world  so  fair 

Is  thine,  not  his;  he  darkens  soon. 
Thy  smile  awakes  the  bird  of  dawn, 
And  day  departs  when  thou  art  gone. 


SYLVIA   IN    THE  W EST.  183 


XXIV. 

Oh !  had  I  groves  in  some  sweet  star 

That  shines  in  Heaven  the  whole  night  through, - 
A  steed  with  wings, — a  golden  car, — 

A  something  wild  and  strange  and  true : — 
A  fairy's  wand, — an  angel's  crown, — 
I'd  merge  them  all  in  thy  renown. 


xxv. 

I'd  give  thee  queens  to  wait  on  thee, 
And  kings  to  kneel  to  thee  in  prayer, 

And  seraph-boys  by  land  and  sea 
To  do  thy  bidding, — earth  and  air 

To  pay  thee  homage, — all  the  flowers,— 

And  all  the  nymphs  in  all  the  bowers. 


And  this  our  love  should  last  for  aye, 

And  we  should  live  these  thousand  years. 

We'd  meet  in  Mars  on  Christmas  Day, 
And  make  the  tour  of  all  the  spheres. 

We'd  do  strange  things !     Sweet  stars  would  shine, 

And  Death  would  spare  my  love  and  thine. 


1 84  SYLVIA   IN   THE  WEST. 


XXVII. 

But  these  are  dreams ;  and  dreams  are  vain ; 

Mine  most  of  all, — so  heed  them  not. 
Brave  thoughts  will  die,  though  men  complain, 

And  mine  was  bold !     'Tis  now  forgot. 
Well ;  let  me  bless  thee,  ere  I  sleep, 
And  give  thee  all  my  joys  to  keep. 


XXVIII. 

I  bless  the  house  where  thou  wast  born, 
I  bless  the  hours  of  every  night, 

And  every  hour  from  flush  of  morn 
Till  death  of  day,  for  thy  delight; 

I  bless  the  sunbeams  as  they  shine, — 

So  like  those  golden  locks  of  thine. 


XXIX. 

I  bless  thy  lips,  thy  lustrous  eyes, 
Thy  face,  thy  feet,  thy  forehead  fair, 

The  light  that  shines  in  summer  skies, — 
In  garden  walks  when  thou  art  there,— 

And  all  the  grass  beneath  thy  feet, 

And  all  the  songs  thou  singest,  Sweet ! 


SYLVIA   IN   THE   IV EST.  185 


XXX. 

But  blessing  thus, — ah,  woe's  the  day! — 
I  know  what  tears  I  shall  not  shed, 

What  flowers  will  bloom,  and,  bright  as  they, 
What  bells  will  ring  when  I  am  dead. 

Ah,  kill  me,  kiss  me,  curse  me,  Thou ! 

But  let  me  be  thy  minstrel  now. 


ELEANORE. 


THE  forest  flowers  are  faded  all, 

The  winds  complain,  the  snow-flakes  fall, 
Eleanore ! 
I  turn  to  thee,  as  to  a  bower: — 
Thou  breathest  beauty  like  a  flower, 
Thou  smilest  like  a  happy  hour, 
Eleanore ! 


I  turn  to  thee.     I  bless  afar 

Thy  name,  which  is  my  guiding-star, 

Eleanore ! 
And  yet,  ah  God !  when  thou  art  here 
I  faint,  I  hold  my  breath  for  fear. 
Art  thou  some  phantom  wandering  near, 

Eleanore  ? 
187 


ELEANORE. 


in. 


Oh,  take  me  to  thy  bosom  fair ; 
Oh,  cover  me  with  thy  golden  hair, 

Eleanore ! 
There  let  me  lie  when  I  am  dead, 
Those  morning  beams  about  me  spread, 
The  glory  of  thy  face  o'erhead, 

Eleanore! 


THE  STATUE. 


QEE  where  my  lady  stands, 
*^   Lifting  her  lustrous  hands, 

Here  let  me  bow. 
Image  of  truth  and  grace ! 
Maid  with  the  angel-face ! 
Earth  was  no  dwelling-place 

For  such  as  thou. 


ii. 

Ah,  thou  unhappy  stone, 
Make  now  thy  sorrows  known; 

Make  known  thy  longing. 
Thou  art  the  form  of  one 
Whom  I,  with  hopes  undone, 
Buried  at  set  of  sun, — 

All  the  friends  thronging. 


190  THE  STATUE. 


in. 

Thou  art  some  Vision  bright 
Lost  out  of  Heaven  at  night, 

Far  from  thy  race. 
Oft  when  the  others  dance, 
Come  I,  with  wistful  glance, 
Fearful  lest  thou,  perchance, 

Leave  the  dark  place. 

IV. 

No !  thou  wilt  never  flee, 
Earth  has  a  charm  for  thee ; — 

Why  should  we  sever  ? 
Years  have  I  seen  thee  so, 
Making  pretence  to  go, 
Lifting  thine  arms  of  snow, — 

Voiceless  for  ever ! 

v. 

Here  bring  I  all  my  cares, 
Here  dream  and  say  my  prayers 

While  the  bells  toll. 
O  thou  beloved  saint ! 
Let  not  my  courage  faint, 
Let  not  not  a  shame,  or  taint, 

Injure  my  soul ! 


PABLO  DE  SARASATE. 


AIT' HO  comes,  to-day,  with  sunlight  on  his  face, 

And  eyes  of  fire,  that  have  a  sorrow's  trace, 
But  are  not  sad  with  sadness  of  the  years, 

Or  hints  of  tears  ? 


ii. 


He  is  a  king,  or  I  mistake  the  sign, 
A  king  of  song, — a  comrade  of  the  Nine, — 
The  Muses'  brother,  and  their  youngest  one, 

This  side  the  sun. 


in. 


See  how  he  bends  to  greet  his  soul's  desire, 
His  violin,  which  trembles  like  a  lyre, 
And  seems  to  trust  him,  and  to  know  his  touch, 

Belov'd  so  much ! 


191 


192  PABLO  DE  SARASATE. 


IV. 


He  stands  full  height;  he  draws  it  to  his  breast, 
Like  one,  in  joy,  who  takes  a  wonder-guest, — 
A  weird,  wild  thing,  bewitched  from  end  to  end, — 

To  be  his  friend. 


And  who  can  doubt  the  right  it  has  to  lie 
So  near  his  heart,  and  there  to  sob  and  sigh, 
And  there  to  shake  its  octaves  into  notes 

With  bird-like  throats. 


VI. 

Ah !  see  how  deftly,  with  his  lifted  bow, 
He  strikes  the  chords  of  ecstasy  and  woe, 
And  wakes  the  wailing  of  the  sprite  within 

That  knows  not  sin. 


A  thousand  heads  are  turn'd  to  where  he  stands, 
A  thousand  hopes  are  moulded  to  his  hands, 
And,  like  a  storm-wind  hurrying  from  the  north, 

A  shout  breaks  forth. 


PABLO  DE  SARA  SATE.  193 


It  is  the  welcome  that  of  old  was  given 

To  Paganini  ere  he  join'd  in  Heaven 

The  angel-choirs  of  those  who  serve  aright 

The  God  of  Light. 


IX. 


It  is  the  large,  loud  utterance  of  a  throng 
That  loves  a  faith-employ'd,  impassion'd  song; 
A  song  that  soothes  the  heart,  and  makes  it  sad,- 

Yet  keeps  us  glad. 


For  look !  how  bearded  men  and  women  fair 
Shed  tears  and  smile,  and  half  repeat  a  prayer 
And  half  are  shamed  in  their  so  mean  estate, 

And  he  so  great ! 


XI. 

This  is  the  young  Endymion  out  of  Spain 
Who,  laurel-crown'd,  has  come  to  us  again 
To  re-intone  the  songs  of  other  times 

In  far-off  climes. 


194  PABLO  DE  SARAS  ATE. 


XII. 


To  prove  again  that  Music,  by  the  plea 
Of  all  men's  love,  has  link'd  from  sea  to  sea 
All  shores  of  earth  in  one  serene  and  grand 

Symphonic  land. 


Oh !  hush  the  while !    Oh !  hush  !    A  bird  has  sung 
A  Mayday  bird  has  trill'd  without  a  tongue, 
And  now,  'twould  seem,  has  wandered  out  of  sight 

For  sheer  delight. 


XIV. 

A  phantom  bird !     'Tis  gone  where  all  things  go — 
The  wind,  the  rain,  the  sunshine,  and  the  snow, 
The  hopes  we  nurs'd,  the  dead  things  lately  pass'd- 

All  dreams  at  last. 


xv. 

The  towers  of  light,  the  castles  in  the  air, 
The  queenly  things  with  diamonds  in  their  hair, 
The  toys  of  sound,  the  flowers  of  magic  art — 

All  these  depart. 


PABLO  DE  SARASATE.  195 


XVI. 


They  seem'd  to  live ;  and  lo !  beyond  recall, 
They  take  the  sweet  sad  Silence  for  a  pall, 
And,  wrapt  therein,  consent  to  be  dismiss'd, 

Though  glory-kiss'd. 


XVII. 


O  pride  of  Spain !  O  wizard  with  a  wand 
More  fraught  with  fervours  of  the  life  beyond 
Than  books  have  taught  us  in  these  tawdry  days, 

Take  thou  my  praise. 


XVIII. 


Aye,  take  it,  Pablo !     Though  so  poor  a  thing, 
'Twill  serve  to  mind  thee  of  an  English  spring 
When  wealth,  and  worth,  and  fashion,  each  and  all, 

Obey'd  thy  thrall. 


XIX. 


The  lark  that  sings  its  love-song  in  the  cloud 
Is  God-inspired  and  glad, — but  is  not  proud, — 
And  soon  forgets  the  salvos  of  the  breeze, 

As  thou  dost  these. 


196  PABLO  DE  SARASATE. 


xx. 


The  shouts,  the  praises,  and  the  swift  acclaim, 
That  men  have  brought  to  magnify  thy  name, 
Affect  thee  barely  as  an  idle  cheer 

Affects  a  seer. 


But  thou  art  ours,  O  Pablo !  ours  to-day, 
Ours,  and  not  ours,  in  thy  triumphant  sway; 
And  we  must  urge  it  by  the  right  that  brings 

Honour  to  kings. 


XXII. 

Honour  to  thee,  thou  stately,  thou  divine 
And  far-famed  minstrel  of  a  mighty  line ! 
Honour  to  thee,  and  peace,  and  musings  high, 

Good-night !  Good-bye ! 


MY  AMAZON. 


I\  A  Y  Love  is  a  lady  fair  and  free, 
*  *  *■  A  lady  fair  from  over  the  sea, 
And  she  hath  eyes  that  pierce  my  breast 
And  rob  my  spirit  of  peace  and  rest. 


11. 


A  youthful  warrior,  warm  and  young, 
She  takes  me  prisoner  with  her  tongue, 
Aye !  and  she  keeps  me,— on  parole, — 
Till  paid  the  ransom  of  my  soul. 


in. 


I  swear  the  foeman,  arm'd  for  war 
From  cap-a-pie,  with  many  a  scar, 
More  mercy  finds  for  prostrate  foe 
Than  she  who  deals  me  never  a  blow. 


198  MY  AMAZON. 


IV. 


And  so  'twill  be,  this  many  a  day; 
She  comes  to  wound,  if  not  to  slay. 
But  in  my  dreams, — in  honied  sleep,- 
'Tis  I  to  smile,  and  she  to  weep! 


PRO  PATRIA. 


AN    ODE    TO    SWINBURNE. 

["  We  have  not,  alack  !  an  ally  to  befriend  us, 
And  the  season  is  ripe  to  extirpate  and  end  us. 
Let  the  German  touch  hands  with  the  Gaul, 
And  the  fortress  of  England  must  fall. 


Louder  and  louder  the  noise  of  defiance 
Rings  rage  from  the  grave  of  a  trustless  alliance, 
And  bids  us  beware,  and  be  warn'd, 
As  abhorr'd  of  all  nations  and  scorn'd." 

A  Word  for  the  Nation,  by  A.  C.  Swinburne .] 


1\TAY,  good  Sir  Poet,  read  thy  rhymes  again, 

And  curb  the  tumults  that  are  born  in  thee, 
That  now  thy  hand,  relentful,  may  refrain 
To  deal  the  blow  that  Abel  had  of  Cain. 


200  pro  P ATRIA. 


Are  we  not  Britons  born,  when  all  is  said, 

And  thou  the  offspring  of  the  knightly  souls 
Who  fought  for  Charles  when  fears  were  harvested, 
And  Cromwell  rose  to  power  on  Charles's  head? 


in. 


O  reckless,  roystering  bard,  that  in  a  breath 

Did'st  find  the  way  to  flout  thy  fathers'  flag! 
Is't  well,  unheeding  what  thy  Reason  saith, 
To  seem  to  triumph  in  thy  country's  death? 


IV. 


If  none  will  speak  for  us,  if  none  will  say 

How  far  thy  muse  has  wrong'd  us  in  its  thought, 
'Tis  I  will  do  it ;  I  will  say  thee  nay, 
And  hurl  thee  back  the  ravings  of  thy  lay. 


v. 


We  own  thy  prowess;  for  we've  learnt  by  rote 

Song  after  song  of  thine ;  and  thou  art  great. 
But  why  this  malice?     Why  this  wanton  note 
Which  seems  to  come  like  lava  from  thy  throat? 


PRO  P ATRIA.  20 1 


VI. 


When  Hugo  spoke  we  owned  his  master-spell ; 

We  knew  he  feared  us  more  than  he  contemned. 
He  fleck'd  with  fire  each  sentence  as  it  fell, 
And  tolled  his  rancours  like  a  wedding-bell. 


VII. 


And  we  were  proud  of  him,  as  France  was  proud. 

Ay!  call'd  him  brother, — though  he  lov'd  us  not; 
And  we  were  thrill'd  when,  ruthless  from  a  cloud, 
The  bolt  of  death  outstretch'd  him  for  a  shroud. 


VIII. 


Thou'rt  great  as  he  by  fame  and  force  of  song, 

But  less  than  he  as  spokesman  of  his  Land. 
For  thou  hast  rail'd  at  thine,  to  do  it  wrong, 
And  call'd  it  coward  though  its  faith  is  strong. 


IX. 


England  a  coward !     O  thou  five  foot  five 

Of  flesh  and  blood  and  sinew  and  the  rest ! 
Is  she  not  girt  with  glory  and  alive 
To  hear  thee  buzz  thy  scorn  of  all  the  hive? 


202  PRO  PATRIA. 


Thou  art  a  bee, — a  bright,  a  golden  thing 

With  too  much  honey;  and  the  taste  thereof 
Is  sometimes  rough,  and  somewhat  of  a  sting 
Dwells  in  the  music  that  we  hear  thee  sing. 


XI. 


Oh,  thou  hast  wrong'd  us;  thou  hast  said  of  late 

More  than  is  good  for  listeners  to  repeat. 
Nay,  I  have  marvell'd  at  thy  words  of  hate, 
For  friends  and  foes  alike  have  deem'd  us  great. 


XII. 


We  are  not  vile.     We,  too,  have  hearts  to  feel; 
And  not  in  vain  have  men  remember'd  this. 
Our  hands  are  quick  at  times  to  clasp  the  steel, 
And  strike  the  blows  that  centuries  cannot  heal. 


XIII. 


The  sea-ward  rocks  are  proud  to  be  assail'd 
By  wave  and  wind;  for  bluster  kills  itself, 
But  rocks  endure.     And  England  has  prevail'd 
Times  out  of  number,  when  her  foes  have  failed. 


PRO  P ATRIA.  203 


XIV. 


And  once,  thou  know'st,  a  giant  here  was  found, 

Not  bred  in  France,  or  elsewhere  under  sun. 
And  he  was  Shakespeare  of  the  whole  world  round, 
And  he  was  king  of  men,  though  never  crown'd. 


xv. 


He  lov'd  the  gracious  earth  from  east  to  west, 

And  all  the  seas  thereof  and  all  its  shores. 
But  most  he  lov'd  the  home  that  he  possess'd, 
And,  right  or  wrong,  his  country  seem'd  the  best. 


XVI. 


He  was  content  with  Albion's  classic  land. 

He  lov'd  its  flag.     He  veil'd  its  every  fault. 
Yes !  he  was  proud  to  let  its  honour  stand, 
And  bring  to  light  the  wonders  it  had  plann'd. 


XVII. 


Do  thou  thus  much ;  and  deal  no  further  pain ; 

But  sooner  tear  the  tongue  from  out  thy  mouth, 
And  sooner  let  the  life  in  thee  be  slain, 
Than  strike  at  One  who  strikes  thee  not  again. 


204  PRO  P ATRIA. 


XVIII. 


Thy  land  and  mine,  our  England,  is  erect, 

And  like  a  lordly  thing  she  looks  on  thee, 
And  sees  thee  number'd  with  her  bards  elect, 
And  will  not  harm  the  brow  that  she  has  deck'd. 


XIX. 

She  lets  thee  live.     She  knows  how  rich  and  rare 
Are  songs  like  thine,  and  how  the  smallest  bird 
May  make  much  music  in  the  summer  air, 
And  how  a  curse  may  turn  into  a  prayer. 


xx. 

Take  back  thy  taunt,  I  say;  and  with  the  same 

Accept  our  pardon ;  or,  if  this  offend, 
Why  then  no  pardon,  e'en  in  England's  name. 
We  have  our  country  still,  and  thou  thy  fame ! 


THE  LITTLE  GRAVE. 


A    LITTLE  mound  of  earth 

Is  all  the  land  I  own : 
Death  gave  it  me, — five  feet  by  three, 
And  mark'd  it  with  a  stone. 


ii. 

My  home,  my  garden-grave, 
Where  most  I  long  to  go ! 

The  ground  is  mine  by  right  divine, 
And  Heaven  will  have  it  so. 


in. 

For  here  my  darling  sleeps, 
Unseen, — arrayed  in  white, — 

And  o'er  the  grass  the  breezes  pass, 
And  stars  look  down  at  nierht. 


2o6  THE  LITTLE  GRAVE. 


IV. 

Here  Beauty,  Love,  and  Joy, 

With  her  in  silence  dwell, 
As  Eastern  slaves  are  thrown  in  graves 

Of  kings  remember'd  well. 


v. 
But  here  let  no  man  come, 

My  mourning  rights  to  sever. 
Who  lieth  here  is  cold  and  dumb. 

Her  dust  is  mine  for  ever! 


A  DIRGE. 


A  RT  thou  lonely  in  thy  tomb? 
•**•     Art  thou  cold  in  such  a  gloom? 
Rouse  thee,  then,  and  make  me  room, — 
Miserere  Domine ! 


Phantoms  vex  thy  virgin  sleep, 
Nameless  things  around  thee  creep, 
Yet  be  patient,  do  not  weep, — 

Miserere  Domine ! 


in. 

O  be  faithful !  O  be  brave ! 

Naught  shall  harm  thee  in  thy  grave ; 

Let  the  restless  spirits  rave, — 

Miserere  Domine ! 


2o8  A   DIRGE. 


IV. 


When  my  pilgrimage  is  done, 
When  the  grace  of  God  is  won, 
I  will  come  to  thee,  my  nun, — 

Miserere  Domine! 


v. 


Like  a  priest  in  flowing  vest, 
Like  a  pale,  unbidden  guest, 
I  will  come  to  thee  and  rest, — 

Miserere  Domine  I 


DAISIES   OUT  AT  SEA. 


'T'HESE  are  the  buds  we  bear  beyond  the  surf, — 

Enshrined  in  mould  and  turf, — 
To  take  to  fields  far  off,  a  land's  salute 

Of  high  and  vast  repute, — 
The  Shakespeare-land  of  every  heart's  desire, 
Whereof,  'tis  said,  the  fame  shall  not  expire, 
But  shine  in  all  men's  thoughts  as  shines  a  beacon-fire. 


ii. 

O  bright  and  gracious  things  that  seem  to  glow 

With  frills  of  winter  snow, 
And  little  golden  heads  that  know  the  sun, 

And  seasons  half  begun, 
How  blythe  they  look,  how  fresh  and  debonair, 
In  this  their  prison  on  the  seaward  air, 
On  which  no  lark  has  soar'd  to  improvise  a  prayer. 


210  DAISIES  OUT  AT  SEA. 

in. 

Have  they  no  memory  of  the  inland  grass, — 

The  fields  where  breezes  pass, 
And  where  the  full-eyed  children,  out  at  play, 

Make  all  the  land  so  gay? 
Have  they  no  thought  of  dews  that,  like  a  tear, 
Were  shed  by  Morning  on  the  Night's  cold  bier, 
In  far-off  English  homes,  belov'd  by  all  men  here  ? 

IV. 

O  gems  of  earth !     O  trinkets  of  the  spring ! 

The  sun,  your  gentle  king, 
Who  counts  your  leaves  and  marshals  ye  apace, 

In  many  a  sacred  place, 
The  godlike  summer  sun  will  miss  ye  all, 
For  he  has  foster'd  all  things,  great  and  small, 
Yea,  all  good  things  that  live  on  earth's  revolving  ball. 


But  when,  on  deck,  he  sees  with  eye  serene 

The  kirtles,  tender-green, 
And  fair  fresh  faces  of  his  hardy  flowers, 

How  will  he  throb  for  hours, 
And  wish  the  lark,  the  laureate  of  the  light, 
Were  near  at  hand,  to  see  so  fair  a  sight, 
And  chant  the  joys  thereof  in  words  we  cannot  write. 


DAISIES  OUT  AT  SEA.  211 

VI. 

Oh,  I  have  lov'd  ye  more  than  may  be  told, 

And  deem'd  it  fairy-gold, — 
And  fairy-silver, — that  ye  bear  withal ; 

Ye  are  so  soft  and  small, 
I  weep  for  joy  to  find  ye  here  to-day 
So  near  to  Heaven,  and  yet  so  far  away, 
In  our  good  ocean-ship,  whose  bows  are  wet  with  spray. 

VII. 

Ye  are  the  cynosure  of  many  eyes 

Bright-blue  as  English  skies, — 
The  sailors'  eyes  that  scan  ye  in  a  row, 

As  if  intent  to  show 
That  this  dear  freight  of  mould  and  meadow-flower 
Which  sails  the  sea,  in  sunshine  and  in  shower, 
Is  England's  gift  of  love,  which  storms  shall  not  devour. 

VIII. 

She  sends  ye  forth  in  sadness  and  in  joy, 

As  one  may  send  a  toy 
To  children's  children,  bred  in  other  lands 

By  love-abiding  hands. 
And,  day  by  day,  ye  sail  upon  the  foam 
To  call  to  mind  the  sires'  and  mothers'  home, 
Where  babes,  now  grown  to  men,  were  wont  of  yore  to 
roam. 


2  12  DAISIES  OUT  AT  SEA. 


In  England's  name,  in  Shakespeare's, — and  in  ours, 

Who  bear  these  trusted  flowers, — 
There  shall  be  heard  a  cheer  from  many  throats, 

A  rush  and  roar  of  notes, 
As  loud,  and  proud,  as  those  of  heavenward  birds ; 
And  they  who  till  the  ground  and  tend  the  herds 
Will  read  our   thoughts  therein,  and  clothe  the  same  in 
words. 


For  England's  sake,  for  England  once  again, 

In  pride  and  power  and  pain, 
For  England,  aye !  for  England  in  the  girth 

Of  all  her  joy  and  worth, 
A  strong  and  clear,  outspoken,  undefined, 
And  uncontroll'd  wild  shout  upon  the  wind, 
Will  greet  these  winsome  flowers  as  friends  of  human- 
kind! 


Sonnets- 


ECSTASY. 


I  cannot  sing  to  thee  as  I  would  sing 
If  I  were  quickened  like  the  holy  lark 

With  fire  from  Heaven  and  sunlight  on  his  wing, 
Who  wakes  the  world  with  witcheries  of  the  dark 


216  ECSTASY. 

Renewed  in  rapture  in  the  reddening  air. 

A  thing  of  splendour  do  I  deem  him  then, 
A  feather'd  frenzy  with  an  angel's  throat, 
A  something  sweet  that  somewhere  seems  to  float 

'Twixt  earth  and  sky,  to  be  a  sign  to  men. 
He  fills  me  with  such  wonder  and  despair ! 

I  long  to  kiss  thy  locks,  so  golden  bright, 
As  he  doth  kiss  the  tresses  of  the  sunv 
Oh !  bid  me  sing  to  thee,  my  chosen  one, 

And  do  thou  teach  me,  Love,  to  sing  aright ! 


VISIONS.  2 1 7 


II. 

VISIONS. 

The  Poet  meets  Apollo  on  the  hill, 

And  Pan  and  Flora  and  the  Paphian  Queen, 

And  infant  naiads  bathing  in  the  rill, 

And  dryad  maids  that  dance  upon  the  green, 
And  fauns  and  Oreads  in  the  silver  sheen 

They  wear  in  summer,  when  the  air  is  still. 

He  quaffs  the  wine  of  life,  and  quaffs  his  fill, 
And  sees  Creation  through  its  mask  terrene. 

The  dead  are  wise,  for  they  alone  can  see 
As  see  the  bards, — as  see,  beyond  the  dust, 
The  eyes  of  babes.     The  dead  alone  are  just. 

There  is  no  comfort  in  the  bitter  fee 

That  scholars  pay  for  fame.     True  sage  is  he 

Who  doubts  all  doubt,  and  takes  the  soul  on  trust. 


218  THE  DAISY. 


III. 

THE   DAISY. 

See  where  it  stands,  the  world-appointed  flower, 

Pure  gold  at  centre,  like  the  sun  at  noon, — 
A  mimic  sun  to  light  a  true-love  bower 

For  fair  Queen  Mab,  now  dead  or  in  a  swoon, 

Whom  late  a  poet  saw  beneath  the  moon. 
It  lifts  its  dainty  face  till  sunset  hour, 
As  if  endowed  with  nympholeptic  power, — 

Then  shuts  its  petals  like  a  folding  tune ! 
I  love  it  more  than  words  of  mine  can  say, 

And  more  than  anchorite  may  breathe  in  prayer. 

Methinks  the  lark  has  made  it  still  his  care 
To  brag  of  daisies  to  the  lord  of  day. 
Well !   I  will  follow  suit,  as  best  I  may, 

Launching  my  love-songs  on  the  summer  air. 


IV. 


PROBATION. 


Could  I,  O  Love !  obtain  a  charter  clear 

To  be  thy  bard,  in  all  thy  nights  and  days, 
I  would  consult  the  stars,  from  year  to  year, 

And  talk  with  trees,  and  learn  of  them  their  ways, 
And  why  the  nymphs  so  seldom  now  appear 

In  human  form,  with  rapt  and  earnest  gaze ; 

And  I  would  learn  of  thee  why  Joy  decays, 
And  why  the  Fauns  have  ceas'd  to  flourish  here. 


220  PROBATION. 

I  would,  in  answer  to  the  wind's  "  Alas!  " 
Explain  the  causes  of  a  sorrow's  flight; 

I  would  peruse  the  writing  on  the  grass 

Which  flowers  have  traced  in  blue  and  red  and  white ; 

And,  reading  these,  I  would,  as  from  a  pen, 

Read  thoughts  of  thine  unguess'd  by  other  men ! 


DANTE.  221 


V. 

DANTE. 

He  liv'd  and  lov'd;  he  suffer'd;  he  was  poor; 
But  he  was  gifted  with  the  gifts  of  Heaven, 
And  those  of  all  the  week-days  that  are  seven, 

And  those  of  all  the  centuries  that  endure. 

He  bow'd  to  none;  he  kept  his  honour  sure. 
He  follow'd  in  the  wake  of  those  Eleven 
Who  walk'd  with  Christ,  and  lifted  up  his  steven 

To  keep  the  bulwarks  of  his  faith  secure. 

He  knew  the  secrets  of  the  singing-time; 
He  track'd  the  sun;  he  ate  the  luscious  fruit 
Of  grief  and  joy;  and  with  his  wonder-lute 

He  made  himself  a  name  in  every  clime. 

The  minds  of  men  were  madly  stricken  mute 

And  all  the  world  lay  subject  to  his  rhyme! 


*  Steven,  a  voice ;  old  word  revived. 


222  DIFFIDENCE. 


VI. 

DIFFIDENCE. 

I  cannot  deck  my  thought  in  proud  attire, 

Or  make  it  fit  for  thee  in  any  dress, 
Or  sing  to  thee  the  songs  of  thy  desire, 
In  summer's  heat,  or  by  the  winter's  fire, 

Or  give  thee  cause  to  comfort  or  to  bless. 

For  I  have  scann'd  mine  own  unworthiness 
And  well  I  know  the  weakness  of  the  lyre 

Which  I  have  striven  to  sway  to  thy  caress. 
Yet  must  I  quell  my  tears  and  calm  the  smart 

Of  my  vext  soul,  and  steadfastly  emerge 

From  lonesome  thoughts,  as  from  the  tempest's  surge. 
I  must  control  the  beating  of  my  heart, 
And  bid  false  pride  be  gone,  who,  with  his  art, 

Has  press'd,  too  long,  a  suit  I  dare  not  urge. 


I 


A 


S&      ■  ■■ 


: 


I 


VII. 

FAIRIES. 

Glory  endures  when  calumny  hath  fled ; 

And  fairies  show  themselves,  in  friendly  guise, 
To  all  who  hold  a  trust  beyond  the  dead, 

And  all  who  pray,  albeit  so  worldly-wise, 

With  cheerful  hearts  or  wildly-weeping  eyes. 
They  come  and  go  when  children  are  in  bed 

To  gladden  them  with  dreams  from  out  the  skies 
And  sanctify  all  tears  that  they  have  shed ! 


224  FAIRIES. 

Fairies  are  wing'd  for  wandering  to  and  fro. 

They  live  in  legends;  they  survive  the  Greeks. 
Wisdom  is  theirs;  they  live  for  us  and  grow, 

Like  things  ambrosial,  fairer  than  the  freaks 
Of  signs  and  seasons  which  the  poets  know, 

Or  fires  of  sunset  on  the  mountain-peaks. 


SPIRIT  LOVE.  225 


VIII. 

SPIRIT   LOVE. 

How  great  my  joy!    How  grand  my  recompense! 

I  bow  to  thee;  I  keep  thee  in  my  sight. 
I  call  thee  mine,  in  love  though  not  in  sense 
I  share  with  thee  the  hermitage  immense 

Of  holy  dreams  which  come  to  us  at  night, 
When,  through  the  medium  of  the  spirit-lens 

We  see  the  soul,  in  its  primeval  light, 

And  Reason  spares  the  hopes  it  cannot  blight. 
It  is  the  soul  of  thee,  and  not  the  form, 

And  not  the  face,  I  yearn-to  in  my  sleep. 
It  is  thyself.     The  body  is  the  storm, 

The  soul  the  star  beyond  it  in  the  deep 

Of  Nature's  calm.     And  yonder  on  the  steep 
The  Sun  of  Faith,  quiescent,  round,  and  warm ! 


226  AFTER    TWO  DAYS. 


IX. 


AFTER   TWO   DAYS. 

Another  night  has  turned  itself  to  day, 

Another  day  has  melted  into  eve, 
And  lo !  again  I  tread  the  measured  way 

Of  word  and  thought,  the  twain  to  interweave, 

As  flowers  absorb  the  rays  that  they  receive. 
And,  all  along  the  woodland  where  I  stray, 
I  think  of  thee,  and  Nature  keeps  me  gay, 

And  sorrow  soothes  the  soul  it  would  bereave. 
Nor  will  I  fear  that  thou,  so  far  apart, 

So  dear  to  me,  so  fair,  and  so  benign, 
Wilt  un-desire  the  fealty  of  a  heart 

Which  evermore  is  pledg'd  to  thee  and  thine, 
And  turns  to  thee,  in  regions  where  thou  art, 

To  hymn  the  praises  of  thy  face  divine ! 


BYRON.  227 


X. 


BYRON. 

He  was  a  god  descended  from  the  skies 

To  fight  the  fight  of  Freedom  o'er  a  grave, 

And  consecrate  a  hope  he  could  not  save ; 
For  he  was  weak  withal,  and  foolish-wise. 
Dark  were  his  thoughts,  and  strange  his  destinies, 

And  oftentimes  his  life  he  did  deprave. 
But  all  do  pity  him,  though  none  despise. 

He  was  a  prince  of  song,  though  sorrow's  slave. 
He  ask'd  for  tears, — and  they  were  tinged  with  fire; 

He  ask'd  for  love,  and  love  was  sold  to  him. 

He  look'd  for  solace  at  the  goblet's  brim, 
And  found  it  not ;  then  wept  upon  his  lyre. 
He  sang  the  songs  of  all  the  world's  desire, — 

He  wears  the  wreath  no  rivalry  can  dim ! 


XI. 


LOVE'S   AMBITION. 


I  must  invoke  thee  for  my  spirit's  good, 
And  prove  myself  un-guilty  of  the  crime 

Of  mere  self-seeking,  though  with  this  imbued. 

I  sing  as  sings  the  mavis  in  a  wood, 
Content  to  be  alive  at  harvest  time. 

Had  I  its  wings  I  should  not  be  withstood ! 
But  I  will  weave  my  fancies  into  rhyme, 
And  greet  afar  the  heights  I  cannot  climb. 


LOME'S  AMBITION.  229 

I  will  invoke  thee,  Love !  though  far  away, 
And  pay  thee  homage,  as  becomes  a  knight 
Who  longs  to  keep  his  true-love  in  his  sight. 
Yea,  I  will  soar  to  thee,  in  roundelay, 
In  shine  and  shower,  and  make  a  bold  assay 
Of  each  fond  hope,  to  compass  thee  aright. 


230  LOME'S  DEFEAT. 


XII. 


LOVE'S   DEFEAT. 

Do  what  I  will,  I  cannot  chant  so  well 
As  other  men ;  and  yet  my  soul  is  true. 

My  hopes  are  bold ;  my  thoughts  are  hard  to  tell, 
But  thou  can'st  read  them,  and  accept  them,  too, 
Though,  half-abash'd,  they  seem  to  hide  from  view. 

I  strike  the  lyre,  I  sound  the  hollow  shell ; 

And  why  ?     For  comfort,  when  my  thoughts  rebel, 
And  when  I  count  the  woes  that  must  ensue. 

But  for  this  reason,  and  no  other  one, 

I  dare  to  look  thy  way,  and  bow  my  head 

To  thy  sweet  name,  as  sunflower  to  the  sun, 
Though,  peradventure,  not  so  wisely  fed 
With  garden  fancies.     Tears  must  now  be  shed, 

Unnumber'd  tears,  till  life  or  love  be  done ! 


A    THUNDERSTORM  AT  NIGHT.  2Ti 


XIII. 

A  THUNDERSTORM  AT  NIGHT. 

The  lightning  is  the  shorthand  of  the  storm 

That  tells  of  chaos;  and  I  read  the  same 

As  one  may  read  the  writing  of  a  name, — 
As  one  in  Hell  may  see  the  sudden  form 

Of  God's  fore-finger  pointed  as  in  blame. 
How  weird  the  scene !     The  Dark  is  sulphur-warm 
With  hints  of  death;  and  in  their  vault  enorme 

The  reeling  stars  coagulate  in  flame. 
And  now  the  torrents  from  their  mountain-beds 

Roar  down  uncheck'd;  and  serpents  shaped  of  mist 
Writhe  up  to  Heaven  with  unforbidden  heads; 

And  thunder-clouds,  whose  lightnings  intertwist, 
Rack  all  the  sky,  and  tear  it  into  shreds, 

And  shake  the  air  like  Titians  that  have  kiss'd ! 


XIV. 


IN  TUSCANY. 


Dost  thou  remember,  friend  of  vanish'd  days, 
How  in  the  golden  land  of  love  and  song, 

We  met  in  April  in  the  crowded  ways 
Of  that  fair  city  where  the  soul  is  strong, 

Aye !  strong  as  fate,  for  good  or  evil  praise  ? 

And  how  the  lord  whom  all  the  world  obeys, — 
The  lord  of  light  to  whom  the  stars  belong, — 
Illumed  the  track  that  led  thee  through  the  throng  ? 
232 


IN    TUSCANY.  233 

Dost  thou  remember,  in  the  wooded  dale, 
Beyond  the  town  of  Dante  the  Divine, 
How  all  the  air  was  flooded  as  with  wine  ? 
And  how  the  lark,  to  drown  the  nightingale, 
Peal'd  out  sweet  notes  ?     I  live  to  tell  the  tale. 
But  thou  ?     Oblivion  signs  thee  with  a  sign! 


234  A   HERO. 


XV. 

A  HERO. 

The  warrior  knows  how  fitful  is  the  fight, — 

How  sad  to  live, — how  sweet  perchance  to  die. 
Is  Fame  his  joy  ?     He  meets  her  on  the  height, 

And  when  he  falls  he  shouts  his  battle-cry ; 

His  eyes  are  wet;  our  own  will  not  be  dry. 
Nor  shall  we  stint  his  praise,  or  our  delight, 
When  he  survives  to  serve  his  Land  aright 

And  make  his  fame  the  watchword  of  the  sky. 
In  all  our  hopes  his  love  is  with  us  still ; 

He  tends  our  faith,  he  soothes  us  when  we  grieve. 

His  acts  are  just;   his  word  we  must  believe, 
And  none  shall  spurn  him,  though  his  blood  they  spill 
To  pierce  the  heart  whose  pride  they  cannot  kill. — 

Death  dies  for  him  whose  fame  is  his  reprieve ! 


REMORSE.  235 


XVI. 

REMORSE. 

Go,  get  thee  gone.     I  love  thee  not,  I  swear; 

And  if  I  lov'd  thee  well  in  days  gone  by, 
And  if  I  kiss'd,  and  trifled  with  thy  hair, 

And  crown'd  my  love,  to  prove  the  same  a  lie, 

My  doom  is  this:  my  joy  was  quick  to  die. 
The  chain  of  custom  in  the  drowsy  lair 
Of  some  slain  vision,  is  a  weight  to  bear, 

And  both  abhorr'd  it, — thou  as  well  as  I. 
Ah,  God !  'tis  tearful  true ;  and  I  repent ; 

And  like  a  dead,  live  man  I  live  for  this: — 

To  stand,  unvalued,  on  a  dream's  abyss, 
And  be  my  own  most  piteous  monument. 

What !  did  I  rob  thee,  Lady,  of  a  kiss  ? 
There,  take  it  back ;  and  frown ;  and  be  content ! 


236  THE  MISSION  OF   THE  BARD. 


XVII. 

THE  MISSION  OF  THE  BARD. 

He  is  a  seer.     He  wears  the  wedding-ring 

Of  Art  and  Nature;  and  his  voice  is  bold. 
He  should  be  quicker  than  the  birds  to  sing, 

And  fill'd  with  frenzy  like  the  men  of  old 
Who  sang  their  songs  for  country  and  for  king. 

Nothing  should  daunt  him,  though  the  news  were  told 

By  fiends  from  Hell!     He  should  be  swift  to  hold 
And  swift  to  part  with  truth,  as  from  a  spring. 

He  should  discourse  of  war  and  war's  alarm, 
And  deeds  of  peace,  and  garlands  to  be  sought, 

And  love,  and  lore,  and  death,  and  beauty's  charm, 
And  warlike  men  subdued  by  tender  thought, 
And  grief  dismiss'd,  and  hatred  set  at  nought, 

And  Freedom  shielded  by  his  strong  right  arm ! 


* 


XVIII. 


DEATH. 


It  is  the  joy,  it  is  the  zest  of  life, 

To  know  that  Death,  ungainly  to  the  vile, 

Is  not  a  traitor  with  a  reckless  knife, 
And  not  a  serpent  with  a  look  of  guile, 
But  one  who  greets  us  with  a  seraph's  smile, — 

An  angel — guest  to  tend  us  after  strife, 

And  keep  us  true  to  God  when  fears  are  rife, 

And  sceptic  thought  would  daunt  us  or  defile. 

237 


238  DEATH. 

He  walks  the  world  as  one  empower'd  to  fill 
The  fields  of  space  for  Father  and  for  Son. 
He  is  our  friend,  though  morbidl}-  we  shun 

His  tender  touch, — a  cure  for  ever)T  ill. 
He  is  the  king  of  peace,  when  all  is  done. 

Earth  and  the  air  are  moulded  to  his  will. 


TO  ONE  I  LOVE.  239 


XIX. 

TO  ONE  I  LOVE. 

Oh,  let  me  plead  with  thee  to  have  a  nook, 

A  garden  nook,  not  far  from  thy  domain, 
That  there,  with  harp,  and  voice,  and  poet-book, 

I  may  be  true  to  thee,  and,  passion-fain, 

Rehearse  the  songs  of  nature  once  again : — 
The  songs  of  Cynthia  wandering  by  the  brook 

To  soothe  the  raptures  of  a  lover's  pain, 
And  those  of  Phyllis  with  her  shepherd's  crook ! 
I  die  to  serve  thee,  and  for  this  alone, — 

To  be  thy  bard-elect,  from  day  to  day, — 
I  would  forego  the  right  to  fill  a  throne. 

I  would  consent  to  be  the  famine-prey 
Of  some  fierce  pard,  if  ere  the  night  were  flown 

I  could  subdue  thy  spirit  to  my  sway. 


XX. 


EX  TENEBRA. 


The  winds  have  shower'd  their  rains  upon  the  sod, 

And  flowers  and  trees  have  murmur'd  as  with  lips. 
The  very  silence  has  appeal'd  to  God. 
In  man's  behalf,  though  smitten  by  His  rod. 

'Twould  seem  as  if  the  blight  of  some  eclipse 

Had  dull'd  the  skies, — as  if,  on  mountain  tips, 
The  winds  of  Heaven  had  spurn'd  the  life  terrene, 

And  clouds  were  foundering  like  benighted  ships. 
But  what  is  this,  exultant,  unforseen, 

Which  cleaves  the  dark  ?    A  fearful,  burning  thing ! 

Is  it  the  moon  ?     Or  Saturn's  scarlet  ring 
Hurl'd  into  space  ?     It  is  the  tempest-sun! 

It  is  the  advent  of  the  Phoeban  king 
Which  tells  the  valleys  that  the  storm  is  done ! 


VICTOR  HUGO.  241 


XXI. 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

Victor  the  King!  alive  to-day,  not  dead! 

Behold,  I  bring  thee  with  a  subject's  hand 

A  poor  pale  wreath,  the  best  at  my  command, 
But  all  unfit  to  deck  so  grand  a  head. 

It  is  the  outcome  of  a  neighbour  land 
Denounced  of  thee,  and  spurn'd  for  many  years. 
It  is  the  token  of  a  nation's  tears 

Which  oft  has  joy'd  in  thee,  and  shall  again. 

Love  for  thy  hate,  applause  for  thy  disdain, — 
These  are  the  flowers  we  spread  upon  thy  hearse. 
We  give  thee  back,  to-day,  thy  poet-curse ; 

We  call  thee  friend;  we  ratify  thy  reign. 
Kings  change  their  sceptres  for  a  funeral  stone, 
But  thou  hast  turn'd  thy  tomb  into  a  throne ! 


.  f  & 


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/ 


XXII. 


CYNTHIA. 


0  Lady  Moon,  elect  of  all  the  spheres 
To  be  the  guardian  of  the  ocean-tides, 

1  charge  thee,  say,  by  all  th)'  hopes  and  fears, 
And  by  thy  face,  the  oracle  of  brides, 
Why  evermore  Remorse  with  thee  abides  ? 

Is  life  a  bane  to  thee,  and  fraught  with  tears, 
That  thus  forlorn  and  sad  thou  dost  confer 
242 


CYNTHIA.  243 

With  ghosts  and  shades  ?     Perchance  thou  dost  aspire 
To  bridal  honours,  and  thy  Phcebus-sire 

Forbids  the  banns,  whoe'er  thy  suitor  be  ? 
Is  this  thy  grievance,  O  thou  chief  of  nuns  ? 

Or  dost  thou  weep  to  know  that  Jupiter 
Hath  many  moons — his  daughters  and  his  sons — 

And  Earth,  thy  mother,  only  one  in  thee  ? 


244  PHILOMEL 


XXIII. 

PHILOMEL. 

Lo,  as  a  minstrel  at  the  court  of  Love, 

The  nightingale,  who  knows  his  mate  is  nigh, 
Thrills  into  rapture ;  and  the  stars  above 

Look  down,  affrighted,  as  they  would  reply. 

There  is  contagion,  and  I  know  not  why, 
In  all  this  clamour,  all  this  fierce  delight, 

As  if  the  sunset,  when  the  day  did  swoon, 

Had  drawn  some  wild  confession  from  the  moon. 
Have  wrongs  been  done  ?  Have  crimes  enacted  been 
To  shame  the  weird  retirement  of  the  night? 

O  clamourous  bird !     O  sad,  sweet  nightingale ! 
Withhold  thy  voice,  and  blame  not  Beauty's  queen. 

She  may  be  pure,  though  dumb :  and  she  is  pale, 
And  wears  a  radiance  on  her  brow  serene. 


THE  SONNET  KING.  245 


XXIV. 

THE  SONNET  KING. 

0  Petrarch!    I  am  here.     I  bow  to  thee, 
Great  king  of  sonnets,  throned  long  ago 

And  lover-like,  as  Love  enjoineth  me, 
And  miser-like,  enamoured  of  my  woe, 
I  reckon  up  my  teardrops  as  they  flow. 

1  would  not  lose  the  power  to  shed  a  tear 

For  all  the  wealth  of  Plutus  and  his  reign. 

I  would  not  be  so  base  as  not  complain 
When  she  I  love  is  absent  from  my  sight. 
No,  not  for  all  the  marvels  of  the  night, 

And  all  the  varying  splendours  of  the  year. 
Do  thou  assist  me,  thou !  that  art  the  light 

Of  all  true  lovers'  souls,  in  all  the  sphere, 
To  make  a  May-time  of  my  sorrows  slain. 


h 


M£»S^ 


xxv. 
TOKEN  FLOWERS. 

Oh,  not  the  daisy,  for  the  love  of  God ! 
Take  not  the  daisy;  let  it  bloom  apace 
Untouch'd  alike  by  splendour  or  disgrace 

Of  party  feud.     Its  stem  is  not  a  rod; 

And  no  one  fears,  or  hates  it,  on  the  sod. 
It  laughs,  exultant,  in  the  Morning's  face, 
And  everywhere  doth  fill  a  lowly  place, 

Though  fraught  with  favours   for  the  darkest  clod. 
246 


TOKEN  FLOWERS.  247 

'Tis  said  the  primrose  is  a  party  flower, 
And  means  coercion,  and  the  coy  renown 
Of  one  who  toil'd  for  country  and  for  crown. 
This  may  be  so !     But,  in  my  Lady's  bower, 
It  means  content, — a  hope, — a  golden  hour. 
Primroses  smile ;  and  daisies  cannot  frown ! 


248  A   PRAYER   FOR   ENGLAND. 


XXVI. 

A  PRAYER  FOR  ENGLAND. 

Ah,  fair  Lord  God  of  Heaven,  to  whom  we  call, — 
By  whom  we  live, — on  whom  our  hopes  are  built,- 
Do  Thou,  from  year  to  year,  e'en  as  Thou  wilt, 

Control  the  Realm,  but  suffer  not  to  fall 

Its  ancient  faith,  its  grandeur,  and  its  thrall ! 
Do  Thou  preserve  it,  in  the  hours  of  guilt, 
When  foemen  thirst  for  blood  that  should  be  spilt, 

And  keep  it  strong  when  traitors  would  appal. 

Uphold  us  still,  O  God !  and  be  the  screen 

And  sword  and  buckler  of  our  England's  might, 

That  foemen's  wiles,  and  woes  which  intervene, 
May  fade  away,  as  fades  a  winter's  night. 

Thine  ears  have  heard  us,  and  Thine  eyes  have  seen. 
Wilt  Thou  not  help  us,  Lord  !  to  find  the  Light  ? 


A    VETERAN  POET.  249 


XXVII. 
A  VETERAN  POET. 

I  knew  thee  first  as  one  may  know  the  fame 

Of  some  apostle,  as  a  man  may  know 

The  mid-day  sun  far-shining  o'er  the  snow. 
I  hail'd  thee  prince  of  poets  !     I  became 
Vassal  of  thine,  and  w^arm'd  me  at  the  flame 

Of  thy  pure  thought,  my  spirit  all  aglow 

With  dreams  of  peace,  and  pomp,  and  lyric  show, 
And  all  the  splendours,  Master  !  of  thy  name. 
But  now,  a  man  reveal'd,  a  guide  for  men, 

I  see  thy  face,  I  clasp  thee  by  the  hand ; 

And  though  the  Muses  in  thy  presence  stand, 
There's  room  for  me  to  loiter  in  thy  ken. 
O  lordly  soul  !     O  wizard  of  the  pen  ! 

What  news  from  God  ?     What  word  from  Fairyland  ? 


A  CHORAL  ODE   TO   LIBERTY. 


A  CHORAL  ODE   TO  LIBERTY. 


i. 

r\  SUNLIKE  Liberty,  with  eyes  of  flame, 

^^^      Mother  and  maid,  immortal,  man's  delight ! 

Fairest  and  first  art  thou  in  name  and  fame 

And  none  shall  rob  thee  of  thy  vested  right. 
Where  is  the  man,  though  fifty  times  a  king, 
Shall  stay  the  tide,  or  countermand  the  spring  ? 
And  where  is  he,  though  fifty  times  a  knave, 
Shall  track  thy  steps  to  cast  thee  in  a  grave  ? 

ii. 
Old  as  the  sun  art  thou,  and  young  as  morn, 

And  fresh  as  April  when  the  breezes  blow, 
And  girt  with  glory  like  the  growing  corn, 

And  undefiled  like  mountains  made  of  snow. 
Oh,  thou'rt  the  summer  of  the  souls  of  men, 
And  poor  men's  rights,  approved  by  sword  and  pen, 
Are  made  self-certain  as  the  day  at  noon, 
And  fair  to  view  as  flowers  that  grow  in  June. 


252  A   CHORAL   ODE    TO  LIBERTY. 

in. 

Look,  where  erect  and  tall  thy  Symbol  waits,* 

The  gift  of  France  to  friends  beyond  the  deep, 
A  lofty  presence  at  the  ocean-gates 

With  lips  of  peace  and  eyes  that  cannot  weep  ; 
A  new-born  Tellus  with  uplifted  arm 
To  light  the  seas,  and  keep  the  land  from  harm — 
To  light  the  coast  at  downfall  of  the  day, 
And  dower  with  dawn  the  darkening  water-way. 

IV. 

O  sunlike  Liberty,  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Mother  and  maid,  immortal,  stern  of  vow  / 

Fairest  and  first  art  thou  in  name  and  fame, 
And  tJwu  shalt  wear  the  lightning  on  thy  brow  / 


Who  dares  condemn  thee  with  the  puny  breath 
Of  one  poor  life,  O  thou  untouched  of  Fate  ! 
Who  seeks  to  lure  thee  to  a  felon's  death, 
And  thou  so  splendid  and  so  love-elate  ? 
Who  dares  do  this  and  live  ?     Who  dares  assail 
Thy  star-kissed  forehead,  pure  and  marble-pale ; 
And  thou  so  self-possessed  'mid  all  the  stir, 
And  like  to  Pallas  born  of  Mulciber  ? 

*  Bartholdi's  Statue  of  Liberty  in  New  York  harbour. 


A   CHORAL   ODE    TO  LIBERTY.  253 

VI. 

Oh,  I've  beheld  the  sun,  at  setting  time, 

Peep  o'er  the  hills  as  if  to  say  good-bye  ; 
And  I  have  hailed  it  with  the  sudden  rhyme 

Of  some  new  thought,  full-freighted  with  a  sigh. 
And  I  have  mused: — E'en  thus  may  Freedom  fall, 
And  darkness  shroud  it  like  a  wintry  pall, 
And  night  o'erwhelm  it,  and  the  shades  thereof 
Engulf  the  glories  born  of  perfect  love. 

VII. 

But  there's  no  fall  for  thee ;  there  is  no  tomb ; 

And  none  shall  stab  thee,  none  shall  stay  thy  hand. 
Thy  face  is  fair  with  love's  eternal  bloom, 

And  thou  shalt  have  all  things  at  thy  command. 
A  tomb  for  thee  ?     Ay,  when  the  sun  is  slain 
And  lamps  and  fires  make  daylight  on  the  plain, 
Then  may'st  thou  die,  O  Freedom !  and  for  thee 
A  tomb  be  found  where  fears  and  dangers  be. 


VIII. 

O  simlike  Liberty,  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Mother  and  maid,  immortal,  keen  of  sight  ! 

Fairest  and  first  art  thou  in  name  and  fame, 
And  thou  shall  tread  the  tempest  in  the  night  ! 


254  A   CHORAL   ODE    TO  LIBERTY. 


IX. 

There  shall  be  feasting  and  a  sound  of  song 

In  thy  great  cities;  and  a  voice  divine 
Shall  tell  of  freedom  all  the  winter  long, 

And  fill  the  air  with  rapture  as  with  wine. 
The  spring  shall  hear  it,  spring  shall  hear  the  sound, 
And  summer  waft  it  o'er  the  flowerful  ground; 
And  autumn  pale  shall  shake  her  withered  leaves 
On  festal  morns  and  star-bespangled  eves. 


x. 

For  thou'rt  the  smile  of  Heaven  when  earth  is  dim- 

The  face  of  God  reflected  in  the  sea — 
The  land's  acclaim  uplifted  by  the  hymn 

Of  some  glad  lark  triumphant  on  the  lea. 
Thou  art  all  this  and  more !     Thou  art  the  goal 
Of  earth's  elected  ones  from  pole  to  pole, 
The  lute-string's  voice,  the  world's  primeval  fire, 
And  each  man's  hope,  and  every  man's  desire. 


XI. 

O  proud  and  pure !     O  gentle  and  sublime ! 

For  thee  and  thine,  O  Freedom  !     O  my  Joy ! 
For  thee,  Celestial !  on  the  shores  of  time 

A  throne  is  built  which  no  man  shall  destroy. 


A   CHORAL   ODE    TO   LIBERTY.  255 

Thou  shalt  be  seen  for  miles  and  miles  around 
And  wield  a  sceptre,  though  of  none  be  crowned. 
The  waves  shall  know  thee,  and  the  winds  of  Heaven 
Shall  sing  thee  songs  with  mixed  and  mighty  steven. 


XII. 

0  sunlike  Liberty,  zvith  eyes  of  flame, 
Mother  and  maid,  immortal,  uncoil  fined ! 

Fairest  and  first  art  thou  in  name  and  fame, 

And  thou  shalt  speed  more  szviftly  than  the  wind! 

XIII. 

Who  loves  thee  not  is  traitor  to  himself, 
Traitor  is  he  to  God  and  to  the  grave, 
Poor  as  a  miser  with  his  load  of  pelf, 

And  more  unstable  than  a  leeward  wave. 
Cursed  is  he  for  aye,  and  his  shall  be 
A  name  of  shame  from  sea  to  furthest  sea, 
A  name  of  scorn  to  all  men  under  sun 
Whose  upright  souls  have  learnt  to  loathe  this  one. 

XIV. 

A  thousand  times,  O  Freedom !  have  I  turned 
To  thy  rapt  face,  and  wished  that  martyr-wise 

1  might  achieve  some  glory,  such  as  burned 
Within  the  depths  of  Gordon's  azure  eyes. 


256  A   CHORAL   ODE   TO  LIBERTY. 

Ah  God !  how  sweet  it  were  to  give  thee  life, 
To  aid  thy  cause,  self-sinking  in  the  strife, 
Loving  thee  best,  O  Freedom !  and  in  tears 
Giving  thee  thanks  for  death-accepted  years. 

xv. 

For  thou  art  fearful,  though  so  grand  of  soul, 
Fearful  and  fearless  and  the  friend  of  men. 
The  haughtiest  kings  shall  bow  to  thy  control, 

And  rich  and  poor  shall  take  thy  guidance  then. 
Who  doubts  the  daylight  when  he  sees  afar 
The  fading  lamp  of  some  night-weary  star, 
Which  prophet-like,  has  heard  amid  the  dark 
The  first  faint  prelude  of  the  nested  lark  ? 

XVI. 

O  sunlikc  Liberty,  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Mot  he)'  and  maid,  immortal,  prompt  of  thought  ! 
Fairest  and  first  art  thou  in  name  and  fame ', 

A  nd  thou  slialt  lash  the  storm  till  it  be  nought  ! 

XVII. 

O  thou  desired  of  men !     O  thou  supreme 

And  true-toned  spirit  whom  the  bards  revere ! 

At  times  thou  com'st  in  likeness  of  a  dream 
To  urge  rebellion,  with  a  face  austere ; 


A   CHORAL   ODE    TO  LIBERTY.  257 

And  by  that  power  thou  hast — e'en  by  that  power 
Which  is  the  outcome  of  thy  sovereign-dower — 
Thou  teachest  slaves,  down-trodden,  how  to  stand 
Lords  of  themselves  in  each  chivalrous  Land. 


XVIII. 

The  hosts  of  death,  the  squadrons  of  the  law, 
The  arm'd  appeal  to  pageantry  and  hate, 

Shall  serve,  a  space,  to  keep  thy  name  in  awe, 
And  then  collapse,  as  old  and  out  of  date. 

Yea !  this  shall  be ;  for  God  has  willed  it  so. 

And  none  shall  touch  thy  flag,  to  lay  it  low  ; 

And  none  shall  rend  thy  robe,  that  is  to  thee 

As  dawn  to  day,  as  sunlight  to  the  sea. 


XIX. 

For  love  of  thee,  thou  grand,  thou  gracious  thing ! 

For  love  of  thee  all  seas,  and  every  shore, 
And  all  domains  whereof  the  poets  sing, 

Shall  merge  in  Man's  requirements  evermore. 
And  there  shall  be,  full  soon,  from  north  to  south, 
From  east  to  west,  by  Wisdom's  word  of  mouth 


258  A   CHORAL   ODE    TO  LIBERTY. 

One  code  of  laws  that  all  shall  understand, 
And  all  the  world  shall  be  one  Fatherland. 


xx. 

O  sunlike  Liberty,  with  eyes  of  flame, 
Mother  and  maid,  immortal,  siveet  of  breath  ! 

Fairest  and  first  art  thou  in  name  and  fame, 
A  nd  tliou  shall  pluck  Redemption  out  of  Death  ! 


Utalian  poems 

BY  ERIC    MACKAY 


LA   ZINGARELLA. 

IL   PONTE   D'AVIGLIO. 

I    MIEI   SALUTI. 


D 


LA  ZINGARELLA. 


IMMI,  dimmi,  o  trovatore, 
Tu  che  canti  sul  l'iuto, 
Bello  e  bruno  e  pien  d'amore 
Dalla  valle  in  su  venuto, 
Non  ti  fermi  sull'  altura 
Per  mostrar  la  tua  bravura  ? 
Non  mi  canti  sul  burrone 
Qualche  beta  tua  canzone  ? 


ii. 

Zingarella,  in  sulla  sera 
Canta  bene  il  rosignolo, 
Piange  e  canta  in  sua  preghiera 
Salutando  un  dolce  suolo. 
Ma  il  l'iuto  al  mio  toccare 
Pianger  sa,  non  sa  pregare  .   .  . 
Deh !  che  vuoi  col  tuo  sorriso, 
Tu  che  sai  di  paradiso? 
263 


264  LA   ZINGARELLA. 


in. 

V6  sentire  in  tuo  linguaggio 
Come  e  fatto  un  uom  fedele, 
Se  l'amor  lo  fa  selvaggio, 
Se  il  destin  lo  fa  crudele. 
Parla  schietto;  son  profana 
Ma  ben  leggo  l'alma  umana. 
Parla  pur  dei  tuoi  vi'aggi 
Nei  deserti  e  nei  villaggi. 

IV. 

Canterotti,  o  zingarella, 
Qualche  allegra  mia  ballata, 
Qualche  estatica  novella 
D'  una  dama  innamorata  .  .  . 
—  Dimmi  tutto ! — Canterotti 
D'  Ungheria  le  meste  notti. 
D'  Ungheria? — Del  Bosco  Santo 
Dove  nacque  il  gran  Sorranto. 


Sappi  in  breve,  son  marchese 
Castellano  e  cantatore, 
Cattivai  con  questo  arnese 
D'una  maga  un  di  l'amore. 


LA   ZINGARELLA.  265 


—  D'  una  maga? — Si,  di  quelle 
Che  san  legger  nelle  stelle. 
■ —  E  fu  bella? — Non  v'  e  guari 
Dama,  oh  no,  che  le  sia  pari. 


VI. 

Come  parca  in  fra  le  dita 

Essa  tenne  il  mio  destino, 
Fu  la  sfinge  di  mia  vita 
Col  sorriso  suo  divino. 
Avea  biondi  i  suoi  capelli, 
Occhi  neri  e  molto  belli, 
Braccia  e  collo  in  puritade 
Come  neve  quando  cade. 


Taci,  taci,  o  castellano; 
Qui  convien  pregar  per  essa. 
—  Io  l'amai  d'amor  sovrano ! 
Pronta  fu  la  sua  promessa. 
L'  aspettai ;  mi  fu  cortese, 
Ma  fuggi  dal  mio  paese, 
Travestita  un  di  di  Maggio 
Come  biondo  e  giovin  paggio. 


266  LA   ZINGARELLA. 


VIII. 

Oh,  giammai  non  fu  sognata 
Cosa  uguale  per  bellezza 
Chi  la  vide  incoronata 
Sorridea  per  tenerezza. 
Chi  la  vide  di  mattina 
La  credeva  una  regina, 
Qualche  sogno  di  poeta, 
Qualche  incanto  di  profeta! 

IX. 

—  Traditor!  col  tuo  li'uto 

Tu  1'  hai  fatto  innamorare ! 

—  Io  giurai  per  San  Bernuto 
E  pel  Cristo  in  sull'  altare, 
Per  Giuseppe  e  per  Maria 
Che  farei  la  vita  pia. 

—  E  il  facesti  ?  —  I  sacri  voti 
Ricantai  dei  sacredoti. 


—  Or  m'ascolta,  o  trovatore, 

Or  rispondi,  e  dimmi  il  vero : 
Hai  veduto  il  mesto  fiore 
Che  si  coglie  in  cimitero  ? 


LA   ZINGARELLA.  267 


Hai  veduto  i  fior  di  rose 
Che  s'intreccian  per  le  spose, 
Quando  cantan  desolati 
Gli  usiernoli  abbandonati  ? 


XI. 

Crolli  il  capo;  impallidisci ; 

Stendi  a  me  la  bianca  mano; 
Non  rispondi;  e  forse  ambisci 
Delia  sposa  ormai  l'arcano  ? 
Qui  mori  la  Gilda,  maga 
Sotto  il  nome  di  Menzaga; 
Qui  mori,  nel  suo  pallore, 
Per  1'  amor  d'un  trovatore ! 


XII. 

Stravolto  1' amante  s'inchina; 

Ei  mira  la  mesta  donzella. 

Velata  e  la  maga,  ma  bella, 
Coll'  occhio  che  pianger  non  sa. 

—  O  donna,  l'amor  t'  indovina 

Tu,  Gilda,  t' ascondi  cola! 


268  LA   ZINGARELLA. 


Nel  mondo  non  v'  e  la  sembianza 
Di  tale  e  di  tanta  beltade ! 
Non  cresce  per  queste  contrade 

Ne  giglio  ne  spirto  d'amor. 

Tu  sola  tu  sei  la  Speranza 
Che  tenni  qua  stretta  sul  cor. 

XIV. 

Tu  sola  tu  sei  la  mia  dama, 

La  gioja  e  l'onor  della  vita; 

Tu  sola,  donzella  romita, 
Del  mondo  la  diva  sei  tu. 

L'amor  ti  conosce,  e  la  fama; 

Ne  manca  l'antica  virtu. 

xv. 

Ma  dove  e  la  fe  del  passato 

Che  tanto  brillo  nella  festa  ? 

L'amore,  l'onore,  le  gesta 
D'un  tempo  che  presto  fuggi  ? 

Fu  vero?     L'  ho  forse  sognato  ? 

Tu  pur  l'hai  sognato  cosi ! 


LA   ZINGARELLA.  269 


XVI. 

La  maga  intenta  ascolta  il  suo  galante ; 

Ride,  si  scioglie  il  velo  e  guarda  il  Sire. 
Rossa  diventa  e  bianca  in  uno  istante, 
E  poi  s'  asconde  il  viso  e  vuol  fuggire. 
Corre  nei  bracci  suoi  lo  fido  amante; 
E  favellar  vorria  nel  suo  gio'ire. .  . 

XVII. 

—  Deh !  taci,  oh  taci !   Al  mondo  ovunque  e  doglia. 

Gilda  son  io.     Ti  bacio  e  son  contenta. 
Pianger  non  so  se  non'per  pazza  voglia 
Come  la  Strega  allor  che  si  lamenta  .  .  . 

XVIII. 

Cosa  vuoi  tu  ?     Che  vuoi  che  si  mi  guardi  ? 

Diva  non  son,  ma  donna ;  e  fui  crudele. 

—  Baciami  in  bocca.     O  Dio !  mi  stringi  ed  ardi 
Tanto  d'  amore  e  piangi  e  sei  fedele  ? 

XIX. 

—  Ugo !     M'  ascolta,  io  son  la  tua  meschina, 

Forte  ben  si,  ma  doma  in  questi  agoni ; 
Sono  la  schiava  tua,  la  tua  regina, 
Quel  che  tu  vuoi  purche  non  m'abbandoni ! 


270  LA   ZINGARELLA. 


xx. 


—  O  cara,  o  casta,  o  bella,  o  tu  che  bramo, 
Dammi  la  morte  unita  a  un  tuo  sorriso. 
Eva  sarai  per  me.     Son  io  l'Adamo; 

E  quivi  in  terra  avrassi  il  paradiso ! 


IL   PONTE   D'AVIGLIO. 


f~\   MESTO  bambino  col  capo  chinato, 
^^     Rispondi ;  rispondi.     Che  fece  Renato  ? 
Fu  vinto  Morello  ?     Fu  salvo  Lindoro  ? 
Rispondi;  rispondi! — Son  padre  di  loro. 


ii. 

Non  veggo  tornare  dal  Ponte  d'Aviglio 
Renato  superbo  del  vinto  periglio. 
•L'  han  forse  promosso?     Risorge  la  guerra? 
Rispondi ;  rispondi ! — L'  han  messo  sotterra. 


in. 

O  ciel !  tu  lo  senti,  tu  vedi  l'oltraggio ; 
Renato  fu  prence  del  nostro  villaggio !  .   . 
Ma  dimmi,  piccino.     Che  fece  Morello  ? 
Rispondi;  rispondi! — Lo  chiude  1'  avello. 


272  IL  PONTE  D'AVIGLIO. 


IV. 


Ahi,  crudo  destino !     Si  grande,  si  forte, 
Morello  nasceva  per  vincer  la  morte. 
Ma  1'  altro?     Che  fece  sul  catiipo  serrato? 
Rispondi ;  rispondi !  —  Mori  da  soldato. 


v. 


Gran  Dio!  che  mi  narri!  Pur  desso  m'  e  tolto? 
Renato  m'  e  morto?     Morello  sepolto? 
E  piangi,  .   .   .  tu  pure?     Gentile  bambino! 
Che  dici?     Rispondi!  —  Vi  resta  Giannino. 


VI. 

Oh  si,  del  figliuolo  l'ignoto  tesoro, 
L'  incognito  figlio  del  biondo  Lindoro. 
Ma  dove  trovarlo  nel  nome  di  Dio  ? 
Rispondi ;  rispondi ! — Buon  padre,  son  io. 


T 


I   MIEI   SALUTI. 


I  saluto,  Margherita 
Fior  di  vita,   .  .  .  ti  saluto ! 
Sei  la  speme  del  mattino, 
Sei  la  gioja  del  giardino. 


ii. 

Ti  saluto,  Rosignolo 

Nel  tuo  duolo,  .  .  .  ti  saluto ! 
Sei  1'  amante  della  rosa 
Che  morendo  si  fa  sposa. 

in. 
Ti  saluto,  Sol  di  Maggio 

Col  tuo  raggio,  .  .  .  ti  saluto ! 
Sei  1'  Apollo  del  passato, 
Sei  1'  amore  incoronato. 

IV. 

Ti  saluto,  Donna  mia, 

Casta  e  pia,  .  .  .  ti  saluto ! 
Sei  la  diva  dei  desiri, 
Sei  la  Santa  dei  Sospiri. 


m 


Mil 


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